Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1921/Jealousy
JEALOUSY
What? Did my spotted lily startle you?Sorry—I never thought to warn. It's trueYou come upon it rather suddenlyOut of that vacant, dingy hall. You seeI've lived with it and tended it so long,I never seem to realize how strongAnd harsh its colors are. In this back roomThey fairly snarl and crackle through the gloonWell, yes, a little sickish I admit.I'll open up the window for a bitAnd let a gust of lilacs in—There, now,You watch him in the field while I tell how .T came to find it first. . . . . .T came to find it first. . . . . .I guess you knowHow much he likes to be alone, to goForever wand'ring off across the hill,Or mooning 'round the ruins of the mill,Or somewhere, anywhere it seems to be,So long as he can get away from me.But once—he was just opening the door—I felt I couldn't bear it any more!I snatched his hat and cried, "What right have youAlways to leave me so? I'm going too!"And went.And went.There was a blurring kind of rain,That soaked the world up in a slow, grey stain;And mist like phlegm—You couldn't hear a soundOn any side, except the one the groundMade, ogreishly sucking at our shoes.I knew that low road was the one he'd chooseTo plague me! So I led, and set a paceAcross the marsh that fairly made him race—Although for all of road or roof or tree,We might as well have stumbled undersea.No wonder I stopped short and screamed out loud,When that thing jabbed its hot fangs through the cloud Around our feet!Around our feet!"It's just a flower," he said,"A happy, lonely lily, warm and red."I couldn't stand the way he kept so mild,And spoke as if I were a fool or child."Pick it!" I cried, "If red can rise in mud,And warmth in mist, there's hope for flesh and blood!"He stared beyond the fog. . . . . .He stared beyond the fog. . . . . ."Oh let it stay,A wild thing fades if you take it away."I knew then what my man was thinking of,His other wife—that Gypsy—his first love—And growing sentimental with his past,As if in spite of death, she were his last.So I stooped down and clutched it in my hand,Gasping as if it were a burning brand,And tore it up, leaves, blossom, roots and all!He never said a word, but straight and tallStalked slowly off, and like an oily screen,The grey, unrolling film slid in between.I waited 'til his footsteps in the mireSmeared over too.Smeared over too.I hid my flower of fireBeneath my coat, but even then it shoneEnough to light the long way home alone.He said that it would fade. I made it thrive.Close to the window pane it seemed aliveAs her own face that used to hover there,With eyes as black as dungeons under hairTawny and wild and bound with red. For hoursShe'd watch that curve of road between the flowers.She'd watch, but nothing came until the dayThe hearse drove up to carry her away.I liked my lily for awhile, but nowIt's bloated, glow'ring, terrible—SomehowIt lived so easily, it grew too well.I often fear it and the bloody spellIt seems to cast. Even the walls and floors Are mottled with its shadow. Lock the doorsAnd blind the windows but I still can seeThe flicker of its poison burn towards me.And then that odor—almost as if slimeCould ooze along the air. Many a timeThose sluggish sweetnesses uncoil and creepUpstairs to slink into my very sleep. . . . . .I guess you're right—fancies like these are bad,And apt to make folks think you're kind of mad.But they're familiar ones to me, you know—I plucked that lily twenty years ago.
Contemporary VerseWinifred Welles