doctor says. If rooms were warmer, And clothes were warmer, food more regular, And sleep more regular, it might be different. Then there's the well. You fear the water. He laughs at you, we children drink the water, Though it tastes bitter, shows white particles:      It may be shreds of rats drowned in the well. The village has no drainage, blights and mildews Get in our throats. I spend a certain spring Bent over, yellow, coughing blood at times, Sick to somnambulistic sense of things. You blame him for the well, that's just one thing. You seem to differ about everything—      You seem to hate each other—when you quarrel We cry, take sides, sometimes are whipped For taking sides. Our broken school days lose us clues, Some lesson has been missed, the final meaning And wholeness of the grammar are disturbed—      That shall not be made up in all our life. The children, save a few, are not our friends, Some taunt us with your quarrels. We learn great secrets scrawled in signs or words Of foulness on the fences. So it is An American village, in a great Republic, Where men are free, where therefore goodness, wisdom Must have their way! We reach the budding age. Sweet aches are in our breasts:      Is it spring, or God, or music, is it you? I am all tenderness for you at times, Then hate myself for feeling so, my flesh Crawls by an instinct from you. You repel me Sometimes with an insidious smile, a look. What are these phantasies I have? They breed Strange hatred for you, even while I feel My soul's home is with you, must be with you To find my soul's rest. ... I must go back a little. At ten years I play with Paula. I plait her crowns of flowers, carry her books, Defend her, watch her, choose her in the games. You overhear us under the oak tree Calling her doll our child. You catch my coat And draw me in the house. When I resist you whip me cruelly. To think of whipping me at such time, And mix the shame of smarting legs and back With love of Paula! So I lose Paula. I am a man at last. I now can master what you are and see What you have been. You cannot rout me now, Or put me in the wrong. Out of old wounds, Remembrance of your baffling days, I take great strength and show you Where you have been untruthful, where a hater, Where narrow, bitter, growing in on self, Where you neglected us, Where you heaped fast destruction on our father—      For now I know that you devoured his soul, And that no soul that you could not devour Could have its peace with you.      

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