I muse upon my country’s ills—
—Herman Melville
WHOSE TEETH ARE THOSE GRITTING the spit-soaked end of a cigar, its blue fumes filling the room to take my breath away and make my eyes water? Melville, Shelby, Henry James—no, not theirs, though they do love their stogies. Franklin, too. Men smell of them and sweat that brings to mind the odor of a stable where no frankincense or myrrh perfumes Death’s sour breath.
“Die easy, Camille, die easy!”
The stone of madness weighs heavily on my breast.
“Juba dis and Juba dat.”
I shall perform the “Chloroform Rag” on the Sholes & Glidden. Now watch my fingers strut!
One said it was a frog,
But the other said nay;
He said it was a canary bird,
With its feathers washed away.
Look ye there!
My name is Ellen Finch, and I am no man’s wench—not even yours, dear husband, to whom in church I pledged my body and my worldly goods.
They have taken my child, and I do not know where to find him.
“Hish! God goes ’mong the worlds blackberrying.”
Mr. Tambo, Mr. Bones, kindly say where my boy has gone, and I shall be forever yours.