Even now

If I see in my soul the citron-breasted fair one

Still gold-tinted, her face like our night stars,

Drawing unto her; her body beaten about the flame,

Wounded by the flaring spear of love,

My first of all by reason of her fresh years,

Then is my heart buried alive in snow.

Even now

If my girl with lotus eyes came to me again

Weary with the dear weight of young love,

Again I would give her to these starved twins of arms

And from her mouth drink down the heavy wine,

As a reeeling pirate bee in fluttered ease

Steals up the honey from the nenuphar.

Even now

If I saw her lying all wide eyes

And with collyrium the indent of her cheek

Lengthened to the bright ear and her pale side

So suffering the fever of my distance,

Then would my love for her be ropes of flowers, and night

A black-haired lover on the breasts of day.

Even now

My eyes that hurry to see no more are painting, painting

Faces of my lost girl. O golden rings

That tap against cheeks of small magnolia leaves,

O whitest so soft parchment where

My poor divorced lips have written excellent

Stanzas of kisses, and will write no more,

Even now

Death sends me the flickering of powdery lids

Over wild eyes and the pity of her slim body

All broken up with the weariness of joy;

The little red flowers of her breasts to be my comfort

Moving above scarves, and for my sorrow

Wet crimson lips that once I marked as mine.

Even now

They chatter her weakness through the two bazaars

Who was so strong to love me. And small men

That buy and sell for silver being slaves

Crinkle the fat about their eyes; and yet

No Prince of the Cities of the Sea has taken her,

Leading to his grim bed. Little lonely one,

You clung to me as a garment clings; my girl.

Even now

I love long black eyes that caress like silk,

Ever and ever sad and laughing eyes,

Whose lids make such sweet shadow when they close

It seems another beautiful look of hers,

I love a fresh mouth, ah, a scented mouth,

And curving hair, subtle as a smoke,

And light fingers, and laughter of green gems.

Even now

I remember that you made answer very softly,

We being one soul, your hand on my hair,

The burning memory rounding your near lips:

I have seen the priestesses of Rati make love at moon fail

And then in a carpeted hail with a bright gold lamp

Lie down carelessly anywhere to sleep.[“Black Marigolds,” translated from the Sanskrit by B. Powys Mathers.]

Phyllis Mae was openly weeping when he stopped and Dora herself dabbed at her eyes. Hazel was so taken by the sound of the words that he had not listened to their meaning. But a little world sadness had slipped over all of them. Everyone was remembering a lost love, everyone a call.

Mack said, “Jesus, that’s pretty. Reminds me of a dame—” and he let it pass. They filled the wine glasses and became quiet. The party was slipping away in sweet sadness. Eddie went out in the office and did a little tap dance and came back and sat down again. The party was about to recline and go to sleep when there was a tramp of feet on the stairs. A great voice shouted, “Where’s the girls?”

Mack got up almost happily and crossed quickly to the door. And a smile of joy illuminated the faces of Hughie and Jones. “What girls you got in mind?” Mack asked softly.

“Ain’t this a whore house? Cab driver said they was one down here.”

“You made a mistake, Mister.” Mack’s voice was gay.

“Well, what’s them dames in there?”

They joined battle then. They were the crew of a San Pedro tuna boat, good hard happy fight-wise men. With the first rush they burst through to the party. Dora’s girls had each one slipped off a shoe and held it by the toe. As the fight raged by they would dip a man on the head with a pike heel. Dora leaped for the kitchen and came roaring out with a meat grinder. Even Doc was happy. He flailed about with the Chalmers 1916 piston and connecting rod.

It was a good fight. Hazel tripped and got kicked in the face twice before he could get to his feet again. The Franklin stove went over with a crash. Driven to a corner the newcomers defended themselves with heavy books from the bookcases. But gradually they were driven back. The two front windows were broken out. Suddenly Alfred, who had heard the trouble from across the street, attacked from the rear with his favorite weapon, an indoor ball bat. The fight raged down the steps and into the street and across into the lot, The front door was hanging limply from one hinge again. Doc’s shirt was torn off and his slight strong shoulder dripped blood from a scratch. The enemy was driven half-way up the lot when the sirens sounded. Doc’s birthday party had barely time to get inside the laboratory and wedge the broken door closed and turn out the lights before the police car cruised up. The cops didn’t find anything. But the party was sitting in the dark giggling happily and drinking wine. The shift changed at the Bear Flag. The fresh contingent raged in full of hell. And then the party really got going. The cops came back, looked in, clicked their tongues and joined it. Mack and the boys used the squad car to go to Jimmy Brucia’s for more wine and Jimmy came back with them. You could hear the roar of the party from end to end of Cannery Row. The party had all the best qualities of a riot and a night on the barricades. The crew from the San Pedro tuna boat crept humbly back and joined the party. They were embraced and admired. A woman five blocks away called the police to complain about the noise and couldn’t get anyone. The cops reported their own car stolen and found it later on the beach. Doc sitting cross-legged on the table smiled and tapped his fingers gently on his knee. Mack and Phyllis Mae were doing Indian wrestling on the floor. And the cool bay wind blew in through the broken windows. It was then that someone lighted the twenty-five-foot string of firecrackers.