Spring 1956 • Vol. XVIII No. 2 Poetry |

This Alice

She, too, the voyaging in doors and Keys, blue portals to the Indies in the seas, and cinnamon and sun at Creole teas. She, too, looked only forward with the ease of ending Thank You and beginning Please. One wears the gift of sight before one sees. The bowls of light arranged beside the limes, this Alice hewed a house of Haitian dimes and paper-lace Jamaican valentines. It was a brittle shack across the beach with six persimmons and a Cuban peach strung from a perch of whisper each to each and clinking in the breeze their fruitful speech, a shack which any wind or wave would teach such touch of loveliness as in its reach. Nightly she played marimba from the pines and, knowing all the meters and the rhymes, composed the darkness to her own designs. This Alice took a lover in the sea and proffered gifts of anklebone and knee. In loving partially, she eagerly announced a fuller offering of three brown fingers on each hand if he would be a further love and hers entirely

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