Two Poems by Henri Cole
ON PRIDE
after Apollinaire
I lived in a rooming house thenand tried to be good but was a realdisappointment. A man without cunningis like an empty matchbox. I can’t remembernow the sad, slow procession of wordsbetween us. Only the hurt. Plug the holeif the patient is bleeding, I thought.If you do the right thing in the first three minutes,you’ll survive. So we put ice cubes on our napes.My pride was like a giant, oblongpumpkin. My words like farting on stone.Then I kissed you until your face became red.I can’t remember now where the words flew off to,but what an awful hurt.
