Relic
The first time I touched it,
cloth fell under my fingers,
the frail white folds
softened, demure. No burn,
no combustion at the touch of skin.
It sat, silent, like any other contents
of any other box: photographs
of the dead, heirloom jewels.
Exposed to thin windowlight it is
exactly as in movies:
a long gown, and where a chest
must have breathed, a red cross
crossed over. The crown, I know,
waits underneath, the hood with eyes
carefully stitched open, arch cap
like a bishop’s, surging to its point.
cloth fell under my fingers,
the frail white folds
softened, demure. No burn,
no combustion at the touch of skin.
It sat, silent, like any other contents
of any other box: photographs
of the dead, heirloom jewels.
Exposed to thin windowlight it is
exactly as in movies:
a long gown, and where a chest
must have breathed, a red cross
crossed over. The crown, I know,
waits underneath, the hood with eyes
carefully stitched open, arch cap
like a bishop’s, surging to its point.
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Disclaimer
We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2011 by Rachel Richardson from her most recent book of poems, Copperhead, Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2011. Poem reprinted by permission of Rachel Richardson and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2024 by The Poetry Foundation.