Consolation for Tamar
the occasion of her breaking
know I am no archeologist, Tamar,
that to me it is all one dust or another.
it must mean something to survive the weather
the Ages—earthquake, flood, and war—
to shatter in your very hands.
it was gravity, or maybe fated—
I wonder if it had not waited
years in drawers, aeons in distant lands,
in your fingers' music, just a little
emboldened by your blood, and so forgot
it was not a rosebud, but a pot,
trying to unfold for you, was brittle.
© Alicia E. Stallings. From Archaic Smile,
Evansville Press; originally printed in The
by permission of the author.