St. Deseret

You wonder at my bright round eyes, my lips     Pressed tightly like a venomous rosette.     Thus do me honor by so much, fond wretch,     And praise my Persian beauty, dulcet voice.     But oh you know me, read me, passion blinds     Your vision not at all, and you have passion     For me and what I am. How can you be so?     Hold me so bear-like, take my lips with yours,     Bury your face in these my russet tresses,     And yet not lose your vision? So I love you,     And fear you too. How idle to deny it     To you who know I fear you.         Here am I     Who answer you what e'er you choose to ask.     You stride about my rooms and open books,     And say when did he give you this? You pick     His photograph from mantels, dressers, drawl     Out of ironic strength, and smile the while:     "You did not love this man." You probe my soul     About his courtship, how I ran away,     How he pursued with gifts from city to city,     Threw bouquets to me from the pit, or stood     Like Cleopatra's Giant negro guard,     Watchful and waiting at the green-room door.     So, devil, that you are, with needle pricks,     One little question at a time, you've inked     The story in my flesh. And now at last     You smile and say I killed him. Well, it's true.     But what a death he had! Envy him that.     Your frigid soul can never win the death     I gave him.         Listen since you know already     All but the subtlest matters. How you laugh!     You know these too? Well, only I can tell them.     First 'twas a piteous thing to see a man     So love a woman, see a living thing     So love another. Why he could not touch     My hand but that his heart went up ten beats.     His eyes would grow as bright as flames, his breath     Come short when speaking. When he felt my breast     Crush soft around him he would reel and walk     Away from me, while I stood like a snake     Poised for the strike, as quiet and possessed     As a dead breeze. And you can have me wholly,     And pet and pat me like a favored child,     And let me go my way, while you turn back     To what you left for me.         Not so with him:     I was all through his blood, had made his flesh     My flesh, his nerves, brain, soul all mine at last,     Dreams, thoughts, emotions, hungers all my own.     So that he lived two lives, his own and mine,     With one poor body, which he gave to me.     Save that he could not give what I pushed back     Into his hands to use for me and live     My pities, hatreds, loves and passions with.     I loved all this and thrived upon it, still     I did not love him. Then why marry him?     Why don't you see? It meant so much to him.     And 'twas a little thing for me to do.     His loneliness, his hunger, his great passion     That showed in his poor eyes, his broken breath,     His chivalry, his gifts, his poignant letters,     His failing health, why even woman's cruelty     Cannot deny such passion. Woman's cruelty     Takes other means for finding its expression.     And mine found its expression - you have guessed     And so I tell you all.         We were married then.     He made a sacrament of our nuptials,     Knelt with closed eyes beside the bed, my lips     Pressed to his brow and throat. Unveiled my breast     And looked, then closed his eyes. He did not take me     As man takes his possession, nature's way,     In triumph of life, in lightning, no, he came     A suppliant, a worshipper, and whispered:     "What angel child may lie upon the breast     Of this it's angel mother."          Well, you see     The tears came in my eyes, for pity of him,     Who made so much of what I had to give,     And could give easily whether 'twas my rapture     To give or to withhold. And in that moment     Contempt of which I had been scarcely conscious     Lying diffused like dew around my heart     Drained down itself into my heart's dark cup     To one bright drop of vital power, where     He could not see it, scarcely knew that something     Gradually drugged the potion that he drank     In life with me.             So we were wed a year,     And he was with me hourly, till at last     I could not breathe for him, while he could breathe     No where but where I was. Then the bazaar     Was coming on where I was to dance, and he     Had long postponed a trip to England where     Great interests waited for him, and with kisses     I pushed him to his duty, and he went     Shame stricken for a duty long postponed,     Unable to retort against my words     When I said "You must go;" for well he knew     He should have gone before. And as for going     I pleaded the bazaar and hate of travel,     And got him off, and freed myself to breathe.     His life had been too fast, his years too many     To stand the strain that came. There was the worry     About the business, and the labor over it.     There was the war, and all the fear and turmoil     In London for the war. But most of all     There was the separation. And his letters!     You've read them, wretch. Such letters never were     Of aching loneliness and pining love     And hope that lives across three thousand miles,     And waits the day to travel them, and fear     Of something which may bar the way forever:     A storm, a wreck, a submarine and no day     Without a letter or a cablegram.     And look at the endearments - oh you fiend     To pick their words to pieces like a botanist     Who cuts a flower up for his microscope.     And oh myself who let you see these letters.     Why did I do it? Rather why is it     You master me, even as I mastered him?     At last he finished, got his passage back.     He had been gone three months. And all these letters     Showed how he starved for me, and scarce could wait     To take me in his arms again, would choke     With fast and heavy feeding.             Well, you see     The contempt I spoke of which lay long diffused     Like dew around my heart, and which at once     Drained down itself into my heart's dark cup     Grew brighter, bitterer, for this obvious hunger,     This thirst which could not wait, the piteous trembling.     And all the while it seemed he thought his love     Grew sacreder as it grew uncontrolled,     And marked by trembling, choking, tears and sighs.     This is not love which should be, has no use     In this or any world. And as for me     I could not stand it longer. And I thought     Of what was best to do: if 'twas not best     To kill him as the queen bee kills the mate     In rapture's own excess.             Then he arrived.     I went to meet him in the car, pretended     The feed pipe broke while I was on the way.     I was not at the station when he came.     I got back to the house and found him gone.     He had run through the rooms calling my name,     So Mary told me. Then he went around     From place to place, wherever in the village     He thought to find me.          Soon I heard his steps,     The key in the door, his winded breath, his call,     His running, stumbling up the stairs, while I     Stood silent as a shadow in our room,     My round bright eyes grown brighter for the light     His life was feeding them. And then he stood     Breathless and trembling in the door-way, stood     Transfixed with ecstacy, then rushed and caught me     And broke into loud tears.         It had to end.     One or the other of us had to die.     I could not die but by a violence,     And he could die by love alone, and love     I gave him to his death.         Why tell you details     And ways with which I maddened him, and whipped     The energies of love? You have extracted     The secret in the main, that 'twas from love     He came to death. His life had been too fast,     His years too many for the daily rapture     I gave him after three months' separation.     And so he died one morning, made me free     Of nothing but his presence in the flesh.     His love is on me yet, and its effect.     And now you're here to slave me differently -     No soul is ever free.