The Dealer
by Lee Nash

She examines each item in turn –
a heavy drop of marcasite,
an ivory cigarette case –

lifts her jeweler’s loupe to the light;
paperweights’ millefiori rods
catch in Venetian eyes.

Deftly she holds a pin
christened with a silver-mark,
lapis cold against her cheek,

opens treen, sprinkles tobacco
in a licorice sheet
that colors lips to pinchbeck.

Arts and Crafts, rose gold,
cameos and fallen gems;
three buttons open on her shirt.

Like her, some pieces are
impossible to age,
though the rosé’s young enough.

A hint of Victorian primness
to our modern negotiation;
a Georgian orderliness

to our hour’s investigation;
to move the blood, we walk,
enter the Romanesque church –

she pours over scraps in reliquaries,
scans the faux Caravaggios
and caged fragmented bones,

then empties her etui of cares,
curtsies a memento,
bids goodbye to God.
 

Forums: 
New Poems