Dusting
By Rita Dove
Every day a wilderness--no
shade in sight. Beulah
patient among knicknacks,
the solarium a rage
of light, a rainstorm
as her gray cloth brings
dark wood to life.
Under her hand scrolls
and crests gleam
darker still. What
was his name, that
silly boy at the fair with
the rifle booth? And his kiss and
the clear bowl with one bright
fish, rippling
wound!
Not Michael--
something finer. Each dust
stroke a deep breath and
the canary in bloom.
Wavery memory: home
from a dance, the front door
blown open and the parlor
in snow, she rushed
the bowl to the stove, watched
as the locket of ice
dissolved and he
swam free.
That was years before
Father gave her up
with her name, years before
her name grew to mean
Promise, then
Desert-in-Peace.
Long before the shadow and
sun's accomplice, the tree.
Maurice.
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Sorry for the delayed post; I had to finish the drabbles as they were refusing to let me do anything else. Then I had to obtain provisions for the big family Chanukah party at my cousin Jane's (the one whose surprise party was last weekend), which I will be attending late this afternoon, and later I have to go out for more provisions for that.
So I have had to blow off my lunch date whom I now cannot see till after the holidays, and I need to go write up an Enterprise article and fold laundry so I can get packed to visit my in-laws with whom we are not-celebrating Christmas. Am completely out of it on my Friends list so vibes to everyone having a hard time and big happy hugs to everyone celebrating and please stay safe to everyone traveling! In case I am not around much, though I will try to get poems posted, happiest of holidays to everyone!
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