Swiftly mounted up; the water
reached to the mountains.
--Epic of Gilgamesh


You need to know I moved your stuff into my house--

    in case you wonder who took


books and bookcases, highboy, footstool, dishes, rugs--

    still good stuff, you would say,


still, some like left-into the west room whose blue walls

    you liked best, the artiste's room,


you teased, with its chaise lounge, oriental rug

    from the church rummage sale.


I fill the wooden trunk with you pictures,

    papers, trinkets, letters from me.


inside my blouse, your silver cross the bishop blessed

    at Confirmation, promising to outsmart


the end of the world with a ritual slap to your cheek.

    From the face of the heaven's moon,


you watch Earthrise, Earthset, sea-swept phases

    luminous as a thousand moons.


In your dusty Book of Alchemy, a green lions melts

    raw sun in his mouth, then spits the ripe seed

 

of pure gold-your mother's rings, bracelet.

    In the gruff pockets of your jacket--

 

Harris tweed, one luxury you allowed yourself--

    I find loose change--pennies

To buy our passage across the River Jordan.

 
Copyright © Martha Modena Vertreace, 2000.  All Rights Reserved.