Dusting

Every day a wilderness—no

shade in sight. Beulah

patient among knicknacks,

the solarium a rage

of light, a grainstorm

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.