The Factory


The smell of burnt log
........mixes with the trapped-in cold.

what's in here will stay.
........Much like an apothecary's shop

with blue decanters labeled
........witch hazel, eucalyptus, lilac,

this room is bottled winter. Scent
........of cold, scent of warped wax and wood.

I am inside my grandfather's room:
........driftwood and stone.

He is cuttting paper into triangles,
........folding them into tiny boxes

he will stuff with petals
........of tuberoses and frangipini,

his remedy for homesickness.
........I am in my studio and a bee-loud

intruder signals his anxiety,
........his need for departure.

You could say he's dilatory in his habits,
........in abeyance from his factory tasks.

I know better than he does
........about the glass window, I know

that he will not get through.
........But certain scents - the lilacs in spring,

the star magnolias round as dinner plates
........blossoming near the Puritan graveyard,

act as a stay against what awaits us.
........I recall my grandfather's funeral

and the feast his third wife prepared.
........Delinquent fathers and unpunctual

uncles, wives, and sisters-in-law
........gathered round a coffin curved like a boat.

Boats like coffins drift in the sea.
........I take a drinking glass and coaster

and snare the bee inside,
........think of the Jains who pour

sugared water on the asphalt
........to feed the ants. I let the insect go.

Back to his presses and widgets,
........back to his factory of flowers.