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Show 92, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 2] Morning spilled east into the room and he remembered he hadn't inquired after her daughter. "Well she's fine--she's with the grandmothers," February said, stretching and curving up for him to admire her, remarkable, he acknowledged, let me pass some time with this hourglass, her trimness sculptured up into generous buxom lines, with those high, hard bosoms, Astarte of the Cyprian city of Kidion. Down the keys they motored, past Layton. Little stilt houses sitting out into Florida Bay. "Tell me about yourself," he said. She was silent across Duck Key, gathering her thoughts, then she began: "Gulfside. A merchantman stove in on a reef. In the storm of October, 1852, there was about three J.C. Penney's worth of merchandise sitting on that reef. And the old, old, grandmothers calling the captains, with their Lorelei songs. A white slaver, putting it strongly, out of New Orleans for Paramaribo, New Netherlands, you see. This is my lineage-shrill nixie-calls, tattered flags and salvors hauling stout Delta women off the Grand Dauphin, with molasses and Pontchartrain salt. Red doors on a Duval Street house, a night-march by the WCTU, the eager fires of their links, a gulfside |