. bottles . by Sonja Benskin Mesher

I am not a silent poet

bottles

now it is installed,
I can write of it.

my husband’s portraits,
in the first cabinet,
locked, precious.
a photograph below,
pickled in time, sweet to the touch.

the top is the negative side of him.

the middle is reflective,
the mirror smashed.

bell jars are easy, chain store,
small dome more difficult,
borrowed from his grave
when the ants crept.

larger dome is mine. part
of my memorial piece, my
space reserved six years ago,
due to the high water level
in that hallowed ground.

we will lay side by side to molder.

the second cabinet.
now it is installed I can write of it.

lower shelf, the guilt I felt ,
about most things, nurtured
this way it still remains.

yet now it is locked away
in the glass cabinet.

two portraits of a lover,
you may know of him?

the secret pickled,
sent out into the world

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