The Reliquary

The world with its dangers
     submits to me,
my spells, my potions,
      for I outrank the heavens,
and with that blasphemy

which makes better my heart,
     I tap the seatbelt,
the helmet, the pavement,
     and other hard surfaces,
I carry a picture of you,

my purse a reliquary
     of your totems,
even when I forget you all day
     you're resident
in the smell of my clothes,

the bruises and scratches
     I bear for you,
that might be yours
     absent my intercession,
and as for kitchen tools,

they're too dangerous altogether,
     I banish them for you,
let's eat out, yes,
     let's go now,
before it gets dark.

Copyright © 2003 Ann Townsend All rights reserved
from The Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission