Frost the child—terrified of his father’s
drunken rages, his schoolmaster’s gnarled scowls—
would rant, clutch his mother. Belle would gather
him in her arms, kiss his cheek, calm his howls
with bible lessons, quote Swedenborg. Years
later—family sheltered under thatch
outside London—the poet would secure
his voice, feel threats from Pound, sit close and watch
Yeats’ gestures, trust no one even after
notching four Pulitzers. Elinor’s moods
chained him. Her tomb-faced pouts, wind-chimed laughter
mired him in doubts. Only long walks in woods,
rasped scratching of his pen would bring brief peace.
Dark dreams of breaking her heart never ceased.
Roger Armbrust
May 26, 2013
