Carol Hamilton

 

Hovering viewers
sip or hurry on,
a hungry swarm.
The basket of calla lilies
on one museum wall
tells its story, murmurs low
so one must draw near,
drink deeply of this frozen specimen
under glass. Dead stop of time
like the mummy museum in Guanajuato City,
his birthplace, where a plaid sock
is stiff and the long wavy “O”
of a Munch mouth cries out,
“I’m not dead! Unbury me!”
forever.

His stamens thrust up
in golden fertility from sweeps
of white waxiness,
for all time young and ready,
singing, aquiver
with that first pluck
of finger on taut readiness.
Each holds ripe magic,
a wand to sprinkle pollen dust,
his arched bridge to clarity
of light.