The French Bearer

Room Magazine - - CONTENTS - LISA RAWN

Oblique pock­ets flat­ter the frame and there are all the at­ten­dant mys­ter­ies—

bast­ing and bind­ing and col­lar wings even darts—

oh, there are the or­gandies, bro­cades chintz and poplin, che­nille and whip­cord;

like a lady of our moth­ers’ era she bore an easy knowl­edge of these.

In me she saw blue wings in­ter­spersed with north­ern spruce as though, through pure ig­no­rance, I could weave these.

Her cities were bent and lovely, sim­mer­ing— so many times I should have car­ried them

to the print shop be­fore now. So many times be­fore now.

Roller-coas­t­er­ing through Value Vil­lage we laughed like gulls

ob­jects bright with po­ten­tial aisles tipped pre­cip­i­tously in­ward

caus­ing her to fly out, leav­ing her red bas­ket pot­pourri jars, fringed shade and gath­ered tu­nic.

Raven wings beat the rain-heavy sky—I open my eyes to see that my tree is full of song­birds knock­ing out seeds.

A be­spoke piece that re­veals age only at the end of a rich and weary life—

draw an adamant this­tle flower seam­lessly over­laid on earth that melts in your mouth

it will taste bit­ter, then sweet— this is her soul

a trove of thim­bles and bits silk and sharp nee­dles.

She sends me a valen­tine that says we’ll be to­gether no mat­ter where life takes us;

she told Mum that to die is fine just en­ter a dream—and I’ll meet you there—

Maybe we shouldn’t say these things I be­gin to feel ill too, sis­ter.

She looks at the whole of it: can­dour and star­lings, and she knows the French Bearer is a spe­cial but­ton, found be­hind the fly.

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