| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | Soiled Hands | | By Mercedes de Acosta |
| | From “Through Windows”
AFTER everyone had left, | |
| It was always so wonderful sitting in the dark theatre with you. | |
| There was a mystery about it, | |
| As though the echo of many plays | |
| Still lingered in the folds of the curtain, | 5 |
| While phantom figures crouched low in the chairs, | |
| Beating applause with vapor hands. | |
| Do you remember how we always sat silently? | |
| I would shut my eyes to feel your closeness nearer. | |
| Then slowly and like a ritual | 10 |
| I would take your hand, | |
| And you would laugh a little and say, | |
| “My hands are awfully sticky”—or | |
| “I can’t seem to keep my hands clean in this theatre.” | |
| As if that mattered … as if that mattered … | 15 | | | |
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