Adorational

by Ann Lederer

Dusk colored birds
deliver pebbles, glass slivers
and edge their nests
like archaeologists' neatly labeled shards
on long aluminum tables.

A certain old dentist
whenever anyone visits
stumbles to his curio cabinet
for a tiny bisque bathtub from France
with mermaids lolling on it
his prize piece
bought for pennies in a thrift shop
right after the war.

In the Buddhist magazine,
anesthesiologists and schoolteachers
discuss their private altars.
For mourning and honor,
it is good to display the photo
for forty-nine days,
according to tradition.
Variably, there may be flowers,
pink and plastic, or newly plucked,
and of course, candles,
and perhaps small jade figurines
from their travels.

A carved wooden box sleeps on my desk
in the basement.
The lid is kept closed.
Inside are small gifts,
bone bits in reliquaries.

I am reluctant to start a list:
Tarnished abalone heart on a chain,
White glass skull from Mexico ,
size of a thumbnail.
Baby tooth, browning at the root.
You get the idea.

The altars spin,
dressed in their prettiest lace,
They are getting ready for the dance.