Thursday, December 27, 2012
A Ruby — as yet uncut — pulses as a heart
in the broken window of his chest.
Jaded beads unstrung at random
led one-by-one to this house, the door unlocked.
(The next clue, incited by a grain of doubt, is repeated, Oh… Oh,
as a Pearl labours to hide the handsome intruder.)
Ah, the tang of family Silver in the air, metallic: first snow
soon to fall. — Tarnished, all the forks, with their tines. Who forgot?
Someone lives here. Any moment up the cellar stairs, mines for Opals will ascend
dirty and tired, to turn out their pockets, lunchboxes “empty” — Don’t be deceived!
With this ring, I thee wept...
And wept. Beyond the window with its broken breeze, a clutch of white-washed stones
tortures the hen with one Glass eye as she paces frantic: Which are my eggs? — mine!
Come lie down.
But where? Where is the rooster with his Diamond-tipped spurs?
Diana Hartog is the author four books of poetry, most recently Ink Monkey ; a novel, The Photographer’s Sweethearts; and a memoir, No Hippies Allowed. She divides her time between California and New Denver, B.C.
Posted by Razovsky at 8:52 AM