Why not, thought Byatt, having lost
Her child. Why the hell not have them?
Pleasures, she meant, indulgences,
Why not give in to them when life
Seems so willing to be random
And cruel. Lies, she might just have well
Have said. Pleasures we know aren’t real,
Won’t just happen, have to be dreamed,
Why the hell not, luscious colors,
Artifice for the art lover,
Happy endings for the readers
Of fiction, who know they’re reading
Lies anyway, surely, shouldn’t they?
And rhyme. That’s a funny pleasure.
Who’s that for? Reader or singer?
The sing-a-long fan? The maker?
No pleasure for a translator.
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