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Show 53 "Read this!" she'd said. Hunt had made her tea, then sat and read the poem. It was simple, un-imitative, clear. The day outside was warm and fully spring and even through the clapboard of his little house, Hunt could smell the earth's arrival, mixed, as it always was in this place, with sea. The poem was about recognition: "Sight touches me . . ."it began. In the poem, an unnamed man and woman saw, each, into the other's heart. Hunt had felt a chill buzz his spine. "It's moving," he had said, nodding, after a second reading. She had seemed so gay. She'd seemed lifted and of a single spirit, released from weight that morning. But Hunt, strangely, had felt a new gravity coming in. "Keep it!" she had said; "that's yours. I made a copy!" And she had whisked her clothes off, proud of herself Hunt had thought, proud of her being, proud of her spirit and her bones. "You're wonderful today," he had said. "I wasn't wonderful last week?" "Yes. But today especially." "You've made me wonderful," she had said. And then, suddenly, there it had been again: Hunt, Self-Conscious. "You've made a wicked, singing woman out of me," she'd said. It was sweetly boastful. "I sing my lungs out all the time at home. I have my kids doing it with me. Donald says, 'What's gotten into you?' I think he hates it." And she had laughed. She had just thrown her head back and laughed, her hair free; her hair unbound and free, not at all as it had been when Hunt had first seen her in Schrafts. "You have sinister powers!" she had said, pointing. |
