by Avery Lynn

Created on: May 04, 2009

To Amber I said "I bought that shoe in Holland,

the cross at Notre Dame." My memories gathered

in this room, side by side, on shelves draped dusty

like a sheet on a corpse. She examined my memorabilia

and said "They're dusty."

But the dust held in place my experiences to remember,

a menu of hor d'oeuvres to be tasted with cigars and brandy,

small delights I knew from the white city of Al Djazair,

or a rooftop table in Beirut gazing out at a topaz blue sea

reaching for the hem of a sandy skirt,

or a thousand winks from a towering mistress,

the sparkles of her sweet kiss at midnight

watched by a couple walking from the Tuileries

to the metro Concorde.

A question inside her head forms like a bubble

moving up in thick viscous gel, gathering other bubbles

until together they become large enough

to push the thought out and she says

"Tell me about the little orange pieces."

Disappearing into thick coolness the bubble fades,

quietly waiting until Amber swirls them up again.

Amber in a soft yellow top and gray skirt.

Arms crossed under perfect breasts,

a sweater hanged on her arm, she wears

Ann Taylor and silence. It's a nice ensemble.

"They are named after you" I said.

I didn't know what to say.

They had nothing to do with her,

this other amber from Lithuania.

A Matryoshka doll on the shelf sits beside the cross

looking up at us her eyes silently asking about her son.

I open it only to find it empty but for a bit of dust.

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