LITTLE CANDLESTICK
(For My Mother)
In scarcity, what bliss, brought
by the voice that commanded it,
unmothering mother, brave to give
lessons instead of love: this little
silver candlestick, bent, bruised, all
that’s left of the modest, old,
possibly French desk set: paper
knife, blotter edges, chased
with a few deep lines. I couldn’t
believe my great good fortune,
coming into possession of what
I’d never dared imagine:
ornaments, for my schoolgirl words.
Years pass, her voice is stilled,
her great-granddaughters know,
only, love. Still I hoard the
bliss of scarcity, its strange
blessing.
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