Poems (Marianne Moore)/THOSE VARIOUS SCALPELS

by Marianne Moore

THOSE VARIOUS SCALPELS

Those
various sounds consistently indistinct, like intermingled
   echoes
 struck from thin glass successively at random—the
 inflection disguised: your hair, the tails of two
   fighting-cocks head to head in stone—like sculptured
   scimitars re-
  peating the curve of your ears in reverse order: your eyes,
   flowers of ice

and
snow sown by tearing winds on the cordage of disabled
   ships: your raised hand
 an ambiguous signature: your cheeks, those rosettes
 of blood on the stone floors of French châteaux, with
   regard to which guides are so affirmative:
  your other hand

a
bundle of lances all alike, partly hid by emeralds from
   Persia
 and the fractional magnificence of Florentine
 goldwork—a collection of half a dozen little objects
   made fine
  with enamel in gray, yellow, and dragonfly blue: a lemon, a

pear
and three bunches of grapes, tied with silver: your dress, a
   magnificent square
 cathedral of uniform
 and at the same time, diverse appearance—a species of
   vertical vineyard rustling in the storm
  of conventional opinion. Are they weapons or scalpels?
   Whetted

to
brilliance by the hard majesty of that sophistication which
   is su-
 perior to opportunity, these things are rich
 instruments with which to experiment but surgery is
   not tentative: why dissect destiny with instruments
   which
  are more highly specialized than the tissues of destiny
   itself?