She Saw The Moment
She broke the neck of the precious jar
they had been saving for years.
A year of wages ran down his scalp
through his hair, the aroma drenched the air.
It was all gone by morning.
All of it — gone.
Her hands, his head, that hour.
Money in the bank,
wine in the cellar,
rings in the safe,
and collections on the shelf:
They are all waiting for their time to anoint —
The money in the bank belongs to the bank
until it belongs to a nephew,
who will put a new roof on a house
in a town you have never seen.
Or the special wine saved for savoring
will be opened on an ordinary Tuesday
by people talking about something else.
It will be very good. No one will say so.
That shelf will be cleared in one afternoon.
Someone may keep two things and box the rest.
The ring will come out of the safe
and go around a finger, or maybe into a drawer.
It’s all going.
So I opened my safe and took out a necklace.
Brushed her hair from the nape of her neck.
Hooked the clasp.
Turned her around to meet my eyes.
My hands, her joy, this hour.
