There is always something to be made of pain.
Your mother knits.
She turns out scarves in every shade of red.
They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm
while she married over and over, taking you
along. How could it work,
when all those years she stored her widowed heart
as though the dead come back.
No wonder you are the way you are,
afraid of blood, your women
like one brick wall after another.
Love Poem
Analysis, meaning and summary of Louise Glück's poem Love Poem
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I feel as if I know the man this poem was written about, and his mother; red scarves and brick walls make good use of pain but don’t compensate for a “widowed heart” in cold storage
this poem is really good