28 March, 2012

        (written for 'Keepsake')

The Ukrainian egg sits on the shelf
of a bookcase. A byzantine
lost wax form of geometrics,
crimson, azure, black, mustard.

Hours of design and submergence.
The blown out essence leaves this:
a dense fragility of perfection
you learned as a child

at your father’s side. This was before
vodka trembled his hands. Yours
were dutiful. You forgave how he
called you a whore, how he

raged and shattered some of the best.
You sought to preserve
the technique and the memory,
the exquisite patterns he knew by heart.

~ ~ Joan Colby

From Houseboat, January 2012, with permission.