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At the rock shop by the strip club
heaps of glass slag
glisten in the sun
odd how something
human-made, without
crystalline structure
is sold on tables
next to geodes
and fool’s gold
but it all glitters
I finger a small cluster
of amethysts
gems that will always
remind me of my mother
who kept the purple crystals
in a white shell
in the bathroom
as if it were lavender soap
she was a woman
without much
womanly art—
abhorred hand lotion
lipstick always bitten
and chapped
in her hand
a broom was less accustomed
than a book
and a piano score
meant more
than a shopping list
or a map—
she was just along
for my father’s ride
admiring beauty
he slightly sneered at—
orchids, fruit
three months after
the dementia that had already
taken her—took her
I built a little shrine
on my desk:
two small pieces of rose quartz
that look like tiny pink mountains
two clusters of crystal quartz
clear as spring water
and a palm full of purple sparkle.
We never loved each other
properly
the closest I’ll get
is to love what she loved
minerals of pressure and fire
smooth from rough—
perhaps that is enough.
copyright 2018
Miriam
Sagan |
