A woman and her harp have taken up residence
in my basement. I stand, vibrating, at the top
of the stairs. She embraces the pale, shimmering
wood. Each small and perfect note reverberates
off tile walls, stone floors, stained-glass windows.She carried her music across the sea, from green
to dry land. She howls to train her voice, intones
medieval chants. Coyote, cowled monk. The sunroom
is a wood, the kitchen a cathedral. She cuts
her fingernails to triangles. She sits on the darkcurved stool, plucking sapphires and rubies from red
and blue wires. She sings a ritual of attrition, a descant
on the domestic hum of ordinary life — luminous,
visible, an iceblink of transcendent sound. The buddha
in the window smiles. His long earlobes quiver.
Abigail [an old poem]
3 responses to “Abigail [an old poem]”
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I like the fusion world culture sense. For me it seems Ireland meets China. Like the last 2 lines.
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It may be old, but it reads as fresh as that exquisite tulip blooming in today’s post. I want this woman to move into my basement. Oops–I don’t have a basement.
Thanks. 🙂 -
Abigail [an old poem]
Abigail [an old poem]
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