Page:Words for the Chisel (1926).pdf/23

Not like the noise that falters in the trees
Above the lesser ripples of the breeze;
Lying awake she listened tense and wept;
Or she would wail and murmur if she slept.

He said he'd take her with him once. She clung
To the sharp bedstead like a frantic child
Who fears the attic darkness. When he wrung
Her fingers from the bed-post, Eric smiled
And carried her as far as where the piled
Barrels of saki made a tunnel,—there
She screamed till Eric hushed her with her hair.

He left his wife ashore to sell the rice,
She kept the gambling house and kept it loose;
What stakes were won with throwing of the dice
They shoved into her lap for poppy juice.
She knew the trade now. Eric knew her use.
In all the foreign ports he boasted how
His fair kanaka kept her marriage vow.

—Just a kanaka, but not like the kind
That changes into niggers, Eric said
Coming to port, not knowing what to find,
But she was there, and sullen, being wed.
—You are a sailor's woman. When I'm dead
You can go off with someone on a spree,
But now, no matter what, you stick to me.

—And here I am, she said—Big with a child,
And Eric's child. Why Eric's? Tell me why
I married him? I never wanted wild
Acres of sea or sailors. She would cry,