In Sweden

(In the voice of Mary Wollstonecraft, 1759-1797)

Now to the city to fight with men, their faces like water,
climbing the ladder of earth to the cold sun, where even children
           would not play.

Frame this English note you owe me. If you cannot pay your debt,
I will write a novel.
           The Irish say, If you cross me I will pen a satire.

The village holds a photograph of a chapel, a cross, cold floor, not even a rug.

In the café below the musician blows smoke, blue
           over houses with stones like petals, fantasies of Russian fairy tales,
rooted fences,
           the language with a bloody sharp festival of feeling
holding me at its distance.

Sounds that do not wish me well.