frankincense & myrrh
The familiarity of places I’ve never been,
the recognition of these merciful holds
when I see them again, inhabit them again,
like the mystifying ache for something old,
worn, and uncanny when I opened the small wooden
casket of frankincense and myrrh, a Christmas gift
from my mother, no gold, but gold was never our language.
That welcomed enveloping musk, and then the memory
of trees, the memory of their dampness
and the way you can sink into their contours,
held and hidden, invisible to anyone
who sees only a tree. In dreams there are places
revisited like childhood nooks, beyond memory,
that seem protected and maybe they are, maybe
they will be, but you never know exactly what’s ahead
or who’s coming along, though you’re aware of the scent
of smoky cherries before you round the corner,
and there’s your father, gone ten years now and
there he is, dying again, and there you are,
in that familiar private place, almost too comfortable,
longing for something old, buried, a little musty
if truth be told, something to sweep over you like fire
and remind you as you breathe it in, gasping,
where you have always belonged.
© MMWms 2020
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Featured image: frankincense and myrrh box (manipulated with deep art effects)
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