I

In 1833, a girl was born
Whose skin was white as innocence. A page
Immaculate, her soul was smudged and torn

By 1854, when, at the age
Of 21, she died a queer white death,
Brought on by arsenic combined with rage

And love, that butcher who will steal your breath
And never give it back to you again.
For Ann, love's posies wove a somber wreath,

A scutcheon for the bitter tale of sweet Ann laid
Into her grave, her bleached hands darkly stained.

II

The night that Ann was born, the midwife wished
To be at home, for she was young and missed
Her husband's voice and touch. So while Ann squished

Her way out of the womb and lightning hissed
And cracked the trees outside, the midwife's worth
Was limited by dreams of being kissed.

Then Ann appeared. Her hair was white at birth,
Her skin like chalk, her scalp so thin and blue
With veins, it made the midwife fear packed earth

Would be Ann's crib, a bath of mourning dew
As close to baptism as she would come.
For Ann seemed blank, as though her soul lacked glue

And slipped away. The midwife crouched, struck dumb
By shock and fear, above the mother's pain
And Ann's pale crown, streaked white, veined blue, dyed plum

By blood and candlelight. But once the stain
Of birth was sponged from tiny Ann, they found
She was a healthy baby girl. Her main

Misfortune was that she was cramped and round
Of feature, and her skin was bleached like flour.
Her eyes two pea-sized rubies, nearly drowned

In tears brought on by other children's sour
Jibes and fearful looks. But Ann turned out,
Despite her youth which strove to make her dour,

To be a sort of angel, free of doubt
That life was sweet as berries round the bend.
She never loathed the thorns nor rued the drought.

One day while fetching water for a friend
To wash her hair, she wondered whether love,
As blind as her pink eyes, would ever send

Romance her way. Her mother called her "Dove"
Because she had dove's hair, dove's skin, dove's hope.
But boys all called her baser names: "Above

The Clouds", "The Ghost", "Miss Lilylips", "The Pope."
And while she strained against the rusted pump,
Ten men walked by. She found the way to cope

Was seeming kind, despite the hateful lump
That filled her throat. The only friendly face
Was a strange man, who, resting on a stump

Nearby, stood up and crossed to where her lace-
Like fingers scraped against the iron bar
That would not plunge an inch. Tom took her place

And forced the lever down with ease as far
As it would go. The pump's dry singing hushed
The birds and made Ann's heart glow like a star

Within her breast. The pump caught and wet gushed
Into the pail. Tom offered in his thick
And German accent to assist, and rushed

To grab the bucket and the road-worn stick
On which his hobo bundle dangled dust-
Covered and caked with days that passed as quick

As pages in a flip-book. Fall was just
About to settle in, and Tom, already cold,
At night, dreaded that the dew would form a crust

Of ice on his blue corpse, for he had sold
His only blanket, useless back in June,
And now slept shivering. When he had told

His woes to Ann, in jigsaw English crooned
As best he could to warm her easy heart,
He pled for any work. At half past noon,

Ann's father came for lunch and gave a start
To find a rascal lapping up his milk.
Like a stray cat, Tom had the urge to dart

Out of the door, but sat as though his rags were silk,
Back straight behind his cake and mug.
Pa called poor Tom a scamp, a tramp, a bilk

A lousy Kraut. He claimed he'd rather hug
A cold-tongued snake than put a German up,
But blind Ann argued, heart agape, and tugged

Her father's sense of grace, "If only he could stop
For a few days. He's been so kind and shown
More care for me than all the town. A drop

Of charity for one who has no home
And sleeps on briar pillows by the road."
Ann's father, pecked and cowed, let out a moan

But then agreed the Kraut could stay and load
Hay for his bread. Ann gushed and called for Tom
To come back in, her center kissed with gold.

Half a year went past in half a day and Tom
Worked hard enough to stay all winter long.
Ann was in love and doted on her Tom.

Her parents thought it positively wrong
For her to wed a German poor as dirt.
Tom would sing to Ann a coarse-tuned song,

The only one he knew, and Ann would hurt
With hope all afternoon that they might marry.
With time they built their love on clumsy flirts.

At last Ann begged her mother's help, her eyes too charry
Embers slick with tears, but still she was refused,
So they eloped one night to huge and scary

Patterson, where Tom, in luck, found work that used
The tailor's trade he'd learned when he was young.
Young Ann, who looked so old, was much abused

By that harsh place. Each day some whistle stung
Her ears with ridicule, and children crossed
Her mind continually. Tom had not sung

To her in months and roughly touched her, soused
As a flambe, each night when he'd get home.
And then she found out why. She nearly lost

Her mind when a dark German girl, alone
On a side street, threw mud on her new dress
And shrieked in dribbled English that she owned

Tom's heart. She said that Ann could not undress
Without him getting sick. Ann ran away.
Her dress was stained with mud, her womb was pressed

With a much darker mark. She spent the day
In silence. Then she crawled out to the store
And bought some powder to kill rats. A play

Began in Ann's bruised mind in which that whore
Would steal Tom's soul if he could not be saved.
That night, when Tom, half-plotzed, came in the door,

She gave him a sweet kiss, and gently waved
Him to his bowl of steaming arsenic,
Believing their salvation was the grave.

By morning, Tom was cold and Ann was sick.
She gnashed her teeth and tried to eat some soup
But hacked and gagged it up. The court's justice was quick,

And in a month, Ann's neck went through a noose
And her sore eyes glittered in the sun all day.
She swung, a white rag-doll, her limbs gone loose.

And that this is a lie, no-one can say:
now lilies sprout from her blank grave in May.

THE END