nor the chamber pot
not the driftwood
or the firewood
not the stripped
oak spool towel rack
or the small claw-footed
porcelain tub. Not
the giant bleached green
nautical chart
stapled to a sunny wall
by the window
nor the yellowed stack
of flute music
on top of the upright
piano. Not even
the children’s rainy day
clay animals
in procession on the sill
or the family
photograph tucked
behind the coat tree
at the foot of the shallow
stairwell. When
you climb to unpack,
not any of these
ever takes you quite
so much by surprise
as your husband’s
ex-wife’s workshirt
hanging in the master
bedroom closet
of this island house
they still share.
By now you should be
used to the presence
of such washed out
denim, an embroidered
daisy on one breast
pocket frayed
like the peeling
interior of the sloping
gabled rooftop
each summer
you come up here.
Always on the same
hook, nothing more
than something
she might have cleaned
or gardened in,
or casually thrown over
her shoulders
on foggy Vinalhaven
mornings. This time
offering from the adjacent
pocket a blackened
sprig of rosemary
and a tiny white
button missing
from the torn left cuff.
Nincsenek megjegyzések:
Megjegyzés küldése