Reworked (but it is not my final answer)

She’s washed the last glasses, the plates,
The forks, bachelors of aluminum
On the elbows like a pensive phalanx
Trickling are
The bubbles of the greasy froth

Each time the keys rattle in the dark
She feels as if she’s still closing
The alehouse shutters
A plate, that often broke to her when washed
The moon chips over the mountain
Where the shepherds sleep
And the sheep dressed as shepherds
She sleeps now within
Right inside the shriek
Of the key in its hole
This bat that if it had eyes
Would have cried

The village’s alehouse this night, by the roadside
With the drunkards that fall like governments
She used to close it early
Right when the twilight like old genitalia
Barely rose over the fields
And propped itself on the poplars
That was the time when the peasants two by two
Shared a bottle of beer
In silence or muffled, because they spoke
Nasally , though still Albanian
The ashamed hoes
Waited for them at the doorways
Like wives
They hated you,
But you were only annoyed by them

The horn of a truck outside, insisted
Like the throat of a peacock
When you closed the shutters
Your Lothario shut the engine
The small backdoor of the store opened
Like a tin-can
On the wooden bed, amid the food stock
Amid the emptied bottles of beer
And the crates encased in spiderwebs
A dead lamp like a rotten eggburst your eyes open, even when shut
And you just couldn’t turn it off
You, quite a lady, muffled your enjoyment
The men happened to be loquacious, every time
Their panting scared the rats in the shelves
Causing an underwater tumult
Over your white thighs the sleepy cheeks
Of the drivers
Over them your henna colored hair

Alas, what a lie the morning was
That gloomy sky like a sleep-deprived man
You staged a faraway arrival from home
Which was to
Come out of the backdoor
And open the alehouse
Through the night you waited,
For the miracle, the loathing
What face would it wear this time
But one day, there, at the counter
They came and took you
In the name of the people they said
In the front of the boys of the elementary school
Returning from class
With chalk in their pockets
The ones they used when they sneakily wrote “bitch”
On the alehouse wall
The spy peasants with an Edisonian triumph
Rushed to be the first to see that smallish bed
Dreamed by women and men alike
Covered with a clean calico
I will overstate
I’ll say that someone liberated
The terrible bulb
Maybe to light their parlors

Sometimes when the keys clang
Her heart really lunges, especially at dusk,
Unlucky soul, feels like she is still closing the shutters
That rhyme with undergarments.
A real luxury
In the shorn prison of ageing women
Inside private, bleeding calendars.


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