by Florence Weinberger
The poet admits it herself,
her poem makes no sense, she says
it might have started with the death of my salamander,
whose rainbows reminded me of God’s promise to Noah.
When my father died, his ring with the phony initials went to his
grandson, who lost it.
I know my mother is dead, her chipped pot in a lower drawer
I know my husband is dead, his gloves still curled to his fingers.
Both sisters–in–law, left me no trinkets.
Most dreamers, not one syllable of their unreported crimes.
I could add my best friend when I was twelve, a photograph, and
of course, the sea.
The sea and I’m alive.
The sea, and news comes to me, the too young, the very old who
buy new Fiats
(I should be that brave, I should go to Africa.)
We’re decimated, yet one friend’s yearly holiday card expands and
began with two,