PEG BOYERS
On Looking into Stoneware Chambers
Squat and stout as a Mayan,
vertical, not slant
and topped by a small dome:
you greet us
open-mouthed and tongue-tied.
Stone dumb, but clay.
Four walls and a roof, a set of windows
in the back
-and a door-
in short, all the spirit needs
when the lights go out.
Inside your templ e womb
still smelling of cedar resin and myrrh
the soul rises from the mummy shell,
plays with faience amulets and alabaster jackals,
sips wine from a red limestone cup,
perhaps even, in her leisure,
contemplates the etymology of
hysteria,
a word reserved for woman, the wombed one.
But she is calm tonight, no time
for histrionics now:
She reaches for the lyre still in her servant's hands,
accompanies herself in song, makes no demands.
Possibly the song's a prayer, sung out of habit
for solace in her lonely tomb,
killing time,
which in fact passes,
until the end of time.
