| Poland, France, Judea ran in her veins, | | | Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle’s cork. | | | | | “Won’t you come and play wiz me” she sang … and “I just can’t make my eyes behave.” | | | “Higgeldy-Piggeldy,” “Papa’s Wife,” “Follow Me” were plays. | | | | | Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk? The newspapers asked. | 5 | | Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name. | | | | | Twenty years old … thirty … forty … | | | Forty-five and the doctors fathom nothing, the doctors quarrel, the doctors use silver tubes feeding twenty-four quarts of blood into the veins, the respects of a prize-fighter, a cab driver. | | | And a little mouth moans: It is easy to die when they are dying so many grand deaths in France. | | | | | A voice, a shape, gone. | 10 | | A baby bundle from Warsaw … legs, torso, head … on a hotel bed at The Savoy. | | | The white chiselings of flesh that flung themselves in somersaults, straddles, for packed houses: | | | A memory, a stage and footlights out, an electric sign on Broadway dark. | | | | | She belonged to somebody, nobody. | | | No one man owned her, no ten nor a thousand. | 15 | | She belonged to many thousand men, lovers of the white chiseling of arms and shoulders, the ivory of a laugh, the bells of song. | | | | | Railroad brakemen taking trains across Nebraska prairies, lumbermen jaunting in pine and tamarack of the Northwest, stock ranchers in the middle west, mayors of southern cities | | | Say to their pals and wives now: I see by the papers Anna Held is dead. |
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