ALTYN
51
Whose heart would yield the flower of compassion.Not even Gentleman Joe, who worked his spellsWith fan-tan, chuc-a-luck, and three-card monte,Suave as the blade of any butter-knife;Nor even Effie Golden—she of the eyesAs wistful as a mating antelope's—She of the lips suffused with all the warmthOf scarlet poppies after rain—Effie,Nobody's woman, the woman of every man—Effie, who coiled her undulating whiteOf arms about young Calvin McElroy,Who dubbed himself a circuit-riding parson—Effie, who breathed a passion on his mouthThat melted his will as a blow-torch melts a candle—Effie, who poured the poison of her bloodInto his veins, and flung him out in the pinkOf morning, to stagger to his hut, shattered,Blighted, as when a sound white apple takesThe worm from a rotten apple at its side.
Oh, desert winds fling handfuls of alkaliAnd dust upon the moldering bones of Altyn;The face of Yellow Mary Mountain, pocked
