A Minor Riot at the Mint
Custome is the most certain Mistresse of
language, as the publicke stampe makes
current money. But we must not be too
frequent with the mint, every day coyning.
Ben Jonson
Into my pocket slips a folded note, creased
like labia, cached with private promise.
Pea blossoms in broth. And my in petto
pleasure in thinking the missive
for me, the edges keen against
my thumb, my plotting to be alone and open it.
Is it tame as a Hepplewhite chair
or nubile as a pitchfork?
The ship rolls through open water,
dirty in the bay around Rio.
I'm a crazy sailor on the gravy boat,
a woman of means. This letter's mine only
till St. Geoffrey's Day, and if
the paper degrades, that's how it goes
with money. I'll wave the wealth
where any frigate bird can snatch it.
O my mackintosh,
my bilbo, my cistern, my confiture,
I love you so much you breathe me away.
—Natasha Sajé
____
from Bend (Tupelo Press, 2004)