for Emma
Having given up
the charade of
freshness, of
forecasting Spring,
long-stemmed
mauve tulips
sagged, their
wide heads hung
over the side of the
proud little vase,
nearly touching
the cool marble
table, seeking
release.
“You pansies,”
I laughed,
wondering whether
to grab my camera
or pen. I checked
the light coming in.
Beside the beaten
blossoms,
an unopened
heart-shaped tin,
held foil-covered
Ferraro chocolates.
This gift from tender
teenaged hands --
glistened
with promise.
Wouldn't the Mercy nuns have loved to
to snatch this miniscule pen from my grip?
This is like a James Bond Pen. No--
This is like a girlfriend of James Bond's pen.
Someone who wouldn't ever use it,
except to watch the urgent message
disappear in thirty hushed seconds.
This is the thinnest pen you'll ever find,
chic, skinny black Mont Blanc, slim
like a julienned carrot, ready for ranch
dip dipping. Its secret, real purpose
has yet to be revealed. Some
perfume or poison, some odorless,
memory-removing puff of air
could be emerging even now,
as I dare to try it out
for my mundane needs.
