Stone, Toy Heron, Jaw Bone of a Deer
They’re lovely in a creepy way, she said, but what
do they mean? Three objects on a table—a chance
still life that had reeled her in from across
the room. Honestly, I said, who can say?
She counted final breaths for a living, this nurse,
this neighbor of mine, carcinomas per breast,
cysts per ovary, birthday cakes per weeping
womb, always getting to the bottom of things.
I didn’t hand her Breton’s Surrealist Manifesto.
Didn’t pretend I was practicing immersion
therapy using artifacts from my busted
childhood. Instead I explained I needed
a nice scumble of white to take the scream
out of this redwood table. She shook
her head no and waited for darker truths.
Instead I handed her each object and improvised.
See how the stone fits your hand
like a world, then makes you want to break
a window with it? She was nodding now.
Meanwhile, I said, this heron gets you
thinking about angles, flight, mass production.
Or maybe nests, she said, nests in a spanky
new country where no one will find her clutch
of eggs. Sure, I said, why not? As for this broken
jaw, I said, we found it half buried in an anthill
last Mother’s Day. She turned it over and over,
then rubbed at it, as if trying to free a trapped
genie. So worn out, she said, so bleachy
my fingers itch. Meanwhile the day darkened
into rain, meanwhile she rubbed, meanwhile
bone truths I thought I had a corner on were
gathering in her reckless palm. And the jaw
tried to bite bite bite the room, who knows
how many ghost deer sleeping in each tooth?
