“Sun is Treasure” by Margie Louise Goodspeed

Sun is treasure and with the right breeze
I’ll pick up the flutter, stir the dust.
The impulse to verse nags yet
the paw prints are new and not enough
to shake the fallen leaves from their
waterless stalks.

Sun is treasure and with the right prayer,
who knows. I am here and I am not
here. I am a
body in a state in a steamer lounger and I am
the history of my novel.
Will I walk into the waves and take
my last breath? Will I
return to Osmond in Italy?
Will I drink the quinine once too
often? When the trains run beside my house,
will I take a long passage
under the charge to grab the brass
ring of my own self-rhapsody? If I
get my name in the title will I
end up dead?
Better to don the red cloak and
face the witch before the fire.
Better to sleep and wait.
Better to drink the vial and save the dagger
for the curtain.
Better to write that epilogue now lest
the coroner fancies the scum on
top of the pudding.

Sun is treasure and with the right deal
the kindhearted Aunt made the boys pie
whenever they fought and made up.
And so it goes.
The man who put his finger
on the hole in my stocking knew
what he was doing. He touched
my skin because
he couldn’t touch
the sun.

Epilogue draws
the breeze, for,
after all,
treasure is for barter and
the forest floor is covered in needles.

Margie Louise Goodspeed

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