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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=402226" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>the rites for Cousin Vit</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=402226" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Carried her unprotesting out the door.<br>Kicked back the casket-stand. But it can't hold her,<br>That stuff and satin aiming to enfold her,<br>The lid's contrition nor the bolts before.<br>Oh oh. Too much. Too much. Even now, surmise,<br>She rises in the sunshine. There she goes,<br>Back to the bars she knew and the repose<br>In love-rooms and the things in people's eyes.<br>Too vital and too squeaking. Must emerge.<br>Even now she does the snake-hips with a hiss,<br>Slops the bad wine across her shantung, talks<br>Of pregnancy, guitars and bridgework, walks<br>In parks or alleys, comes haply on the verge<br>Of happiness, haply hysterics. Is.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Gwendolyn+Brooks">Gwendolyn Brooks</a></strong></div>

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