Cane

by Jean Toomer

CANE

A novel in a single moment.

At sunset, when there was no wind, and the pine-smoke from over by the sawmill hugged the earth,

She stoned the cows, and beat her dog, and fought the other children…Even the preacher, who caught her at mischief, told himself that she was as innocently lovely as a November cotton flower.

Men do not know that the soul of her was a growing thing ripened too soon.

Portrait

a still life presented. A portrait of a person. Reminiscent of war photography? Documentary feel to this poem? A pure truth....?

Her Lips Are Copper Wire whisper of yellow globes gleaming on lamp-posts that sway like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog

Her heavy breathing has the sound of evening winds that blow through pinecones.