Rita Dove





Dusting

Every day a wilderness—no   
shade in sight. Beulah
patient among knicknacks,   
the solarium a rage
of light, a grainstorm
as her gray cloth brings
dark wood to life.

Under her hand scrolls
and crests gleam
darker still. What
was his name, that
silly boy at the fair with
the rifle booth? And his kiss and   
the clear bowl with one bright   
fish, rippling
wound!

Not Michael—
something finer. Each dust   
stroke a deep breath and   
the canary in bloom.
Wavery memory: home   
from a dance, the front door   
blown open and the parlor   
in snow, she rushed
the bowl to the stove, watched   
as the locket of ice
dissolved and he
swam free.

That was years before
Father gave her up
with her name, years before   
her name grew to mean   
Promise, then   
Desert-in-Peace.
Long before the shadow and   
sun’s accomplice, the tree.

Maurice.