Comment on this article

To My Husband, Collector Of Found Objects
by Barbara Rockman

Artist of assemblage,
I will trade some of what I covet:
rusted bottle cap, dead bees, chipped cat's eye‐
for the promise of a daily prize pressed into my palm.

When I present sheaths of words, keep your red pen
pocketed. I lose accolades as others lose keys. I am at a sinking age.
Erase the gawk of lost tact. Revel me, not Once, but Now.

When my witch broom torches you,
remove my daggered hat; cajole the cackler.
Ease my body down. Tongue each rivulet and marsh.

I am famished for a Whitman's sampler. Ribbon me
with clichés in downturn and orange alert
through sweet breath and sour,

honey in the larder, chard on the plate,
from one eclipse to bitterest dark;
that is how to love me.




 

Return to: