Circling Home

An Heirloom from Utah Pioneer Days (p. 6)

Hidden away in a drawer

beneath my lace nightgown

lies Gréât Grandmother`s

rosé sachet.

An extravagant luxury

born in thé heart

of thé désert. Cuttings

cradled across endless

plains, pétais dried

from prized bushes,

lovingly nurtured

from parched sand.

Rare rosé pétais to saturate

a bridai bower. Musky

scent to soften hungry

children`s screams.

Opiate to salve

broken promises,

unfulfilled dreams.

Like frankincense

and myrrh, a célébration

of hope

in thé désert

passed from mother

to daughter, mother

to daughter, mother

to daughter.

At night, in my lace

gown, I remember

my future.

Photographs

1 (1846)

In thé rain-soaked crowd

at thé end of thé wharf,

she clutches thé loden cape

around her frail body.

It whips in thé sea wind.

She presses a handkerchief

to wet cheeks.

Her determined hand

once again brushes

thé dark hair away

from stinging lids.

Thèse eyes must seize

his silhouette,

burn forever thé curve

of her first-born`s

cleft chin into her mind.

As thé tall ship escapes

thé English dock, she lets

go of thé cape, waves.

Her palm at first beats

thé air like hummingbird`s

wings, but then slows down

like thé pendulum on death`s

clock. The small hand slaps

at thé wind long after

thé ship has sailed beyond sight,

toward Zion, God, America.

Dusk slips into thé ship`s empty

berth. The crowd déserts

thé angry sea. Her worn body alone

faces west.

The heaving deck shudders

with shivering passengers

reluctant to go below

as they capture their last look

at family, wave their farewell

to England. George Romney stands erect

at thé stern, a man about twenty,

garbed in black, clutching "thé Book

of Mormon" in both hands. His tearless

face, open with faith, stares west.

2 (1989)

My now grown-up son`s picture captures

his blond curls, blue eyes. A broad

smile floods his two-year-old face.

Snapped before he rocked with pain:

ear infections, allergies, dyslexia.

Last y ear frozen water pipes burst, deluging

thé basement. Ail of our family albums

ruined. I rummage in my large black

purse trying to find thé picture. My fingers

grasp only small change, paper clips,

a bright red lipstick, an old bail-point

pen.