Still Life: Eggs in Linen
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This is not about what I wanted
To start with, a floor, some sun
Slanting through, turning the amber tiles
Warmer, suddenly, as if someone
Were there sleeping, or waking,
Watching that slowness open
A lily. It’s not
About what I’ve wanted. It is
Only a floor, some light stunned
Upon a lily, and someone
Breathing under a blue blanket.
I am not watching this from a distance
Anymore. How many times
Have I walked through alleys
Kicking a stone curb to curb,
Hands in my pockets, almost warm?
How many times has snow scabbed
The surface of a pond, the koi bashful
And waving beneath? How many times
Have I marked the calendar in blue
Pencil my last days in this man’s shape?
This is not about what I want.
The floor is warm, that’s all, and not
By its own accord. And that is why
This is not a love poem, why it does not move
Beyond desire, unlike the sun,
From the floor to beneath the blanket,
To wrapping, Sweet Jesus, my cold hands
Around your cold hands, hands that, once,
Drew dots as small as stars
And made silver eggs dimly glow
In some linen-wrapped forever.
It’s just paper. It’s not
About what I want at all.

From Vigil by Alexander Long, 2006

New Issues Poetry & Prose, Western Michigan University, Dept. of English,
1903 W. Michigan Ave., Kalamazoo, MI 49008-5331
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