DRUM-TRUCK CAME
49
carefully distributed. He lies like a river on a hot afternoon, digesting
the sun that its steadiness be of him. The gleam of him is dull now,
solidly sleeping.
Martha's eyes are wet like grass as the flood recedes, and the
taste on her tongue is a tender memory. Slowly through the hours
the freshness leaves her eyes, the fresh fern look, as the sun shines hot.
And the sun still shines and her eyes are dry and the bird in her
throat is quietly remembering. And the sun dries her dress and the
crispness is regained, the deeper blue and the brighter white of a
summer afternoon. And the crispness is regained and her breasts are
round and her eyes are drying from the flood that had been, tenderly
breathing. The rising of her breasts is a good thing to see, a warm
thing. The rhythm of her breasts is the movement of fields with the
wind's hands on them. Awareness of the wind and the hot-heavy
tenderness find themselves one in her, rebirth of living. The tramp
wakes up, sees her with loving, aroused by the loving that still sweetly
colors her eyes. Martha sees him looking, knows the look. The bird in
her throat clears its throat as her breasts rise, honey and grapes
reclaim her tongue.
The tramp was a cloud, the trophy of any breeze. Love was a
breeze, an afternoon wind touching the· hot day. What a lovely day.
Martha's eyes are greening as the tramp's eyeS darken, darken and
gather like a cloud that will soon be rain. Martha's eyes have the
curving, the warm earth breathing, the sweet green sloping of after–
noon pastures. Now lying in the field would be like lying in her eyes
and the hot sweet thought of it rises in our throats, like the bird erect
in
Martha's throat and singing now and singing (our lovely Martha
now, like moisture rising in the tramp's sky soon to be rain (our man
now) and soon be raining. The drum-man was stretched across the
back of the truck, silently (now) and blondly sleeping. The truck
lurched over a bump in the road, lurched the drum-man off the back
of the truck, and he tumbled off and out of our lives. The truck
rode on.
* * *
THE TRAMP. He's gone now.
MARTHA. Who
is
gone?
THE TRAMP. Why the drum-man of course.
MARTHA. I don't remember. I don't remember anything.
Only a taste
I
seem to remember, the bitter the sweet and the sour of
wild grapes, the blooming, the burgeoning, only the taste of the honey
I
remember, for they are with me now again, my breasts are like
honey.
THE TRAMP. I remember who it was, the drum
is
still there.
