Menu

Poetry

Your place, not mine.
Vessels for water, of course.
Maybe one for wine.
Bread, smoked fish,
honey in an earthen jar.
Basins for ablutions.
The bed you share
with pleasure to ponder.
And somewhere for prayer,
rug, bench, stool, shelf
beneath the shell collection,
keepsake chips of Egyptian glass,
Silk Road cloth, a dark blue piece.
But the stones, where are they,
or whatever you’ve lifted
to make those small arms strong enough
for the thirteenth station,
his deadweight draped upon them?


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Access one piece of artwork every month for free! To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe.

Related Poetry

According

By

Amy McCann

Hirudo Medicinalis

By

Martha Serpas

Gravity and Grace

By

Betsy Sholl

Twenty-Five Years of Fresh Air

By

George David Clark

Pin It on Pinterest