A Memory of the Players in a Mirror at Midnight
They mouth love's language.
The thirteen teeth
Your lean jaws grin with.
Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the flesh.
Love's breath in you is stale, worded or sung,
As sour as cat's breath,
Harsh of tongue.
This grey that stares
Lies not, stark skin and bone.
Leave greasy lips their kissing.
Will choose her what you see to mouth upon.
Dire hunger holds his hour.
Pluck forth your heart, saltblood, a fruit of tears.
Pluck and devour!
| Best Poems | Short Poems
Email Poem |
More Poems by James Joyce
Comments, Analysis, and Meaning on A Memory of the Players in a Mirror at Midnight
Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem A Memory of the Players in a Mirror at Midnight here.
Commenting turned off, sorry.