She still has some cousins in Leitrim,
the tall nurse broadcasting our secret,
and bright eyes bright as trinkets
when her pink nail taps the screen.
Between the coda and the dipped head
a flicker in the quadrant's grain
steadies to a light bobbing
rhythmically, unhindered ...
We stand before the elevator's
mirror now like any other passengers
disembarking at the gate, late,
a silent weight of uncut gems
stitched meticulously in the hems
of your winter coat, my leather case.
W. W. Norton
Copyright © 2013 by Nick Laird
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission