by Karen Kolb

victor altshul

spring 2016

A juiceless shrew with toothsome sneer,

Xanthippe declined the weary

sputtering of the inquiring Socratic member;

and Shaw, for all his verbal flame,

had his desiccated epistolary fill

of rectitude with a high-born dame,

elegance of ample flesh

left to shrivel in a November chill;

and is the Magdalen virginal still and fresh?

The four biographers of our lord perhaps

left no juicy bits for us to remember,

and those pious quattrocento chaps

swept her off to a lower corner

of the canvas, while all the mourners

looked at him alone, for Magda left them cold.


                                                            So scold

me for showing off some biologic bounce,

if you should feel so inclined,

but I would like to announce,

as I settle into November’s uncertain mind,

that I delight in the retention of a life

of nether thrills of a propulsive kind,

and noisy thrum with rumpled, scrumptious wife