Utu Man (19) A Duck

I looked at my mother's things
kept in her creviced
plum-tree chest:

her tattered apron
with a panther's head
and straps tied up
in a shrivelled butterfly,

her tawny comb –
a hand with broken fingers,
holding all the same
two or three auburn hairs,

brittle and limp
like dry tendrils of vine,
retaining on their tips
a few droplets of sour time,

and her salt cellar,
an almond duck
with a lid in the shape
of a clover,
on a russet peg.

I gave up all hope
to open the lid,
there was too much salt
encrusted on it,

as if the azure plain
where the duck used to float
dried up completely,
leaving this salt.

I held the duck up to my ear,
I stood and cried
to the mellifluent sea
still plashing inside.

Вланес, 2009

Сертификат Поэзия.ру: серия 790 № 67595 от 29.01.2009

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