Next poem's called "The Beginning of April."
I wrote it April, two years ago.
The country that's mentioned in it, the war that
was going on then was Biafra.
Last April I could have written the same poem about Bengal.
This year I guess about Belfast.
You just keep going with B wars.
"I feel terribly strong today.
It's like the time I arm wrestled a friend
and beat him so badly I sprained his wrist
or when I made a woman who was really beautiful
love me when she didn't want to.
It must be the warm weather.
I think I could smash bricks with my bare hands or screw
until I was half out of my mind.
The only trouble--
Jesus, the only trouble is I keep
thinking about a kid I saw starving on television
last night from Biafra.
He was unbearably fragile.
His stomach puffed up, arms and legs sticks, eyes distorted.
What if I touch somebody like that when I was this way?
I can feel him going stiff under my hands.
I can feel his belly bulging ready to pop,
his pale hair disengaging from its roots
like something awful and alive.
Please, I won't hurt you.
I want you in my arms.
I want to make something for you to eat like warm soup.
Look.
I'll chew the meat for you first in case your teeth ache.
I'll keep everybody away if you're sleeping
and hold you next to me like a little brother when we go out.
I'm so cold now.
What are we going to do with all this?
I promise I won't feel myself like this ever again.
It's just the spring.
It doesn't mean anything.
Please."