Dowry

A pail of coal carried to the stove
to raise the flame’s ears high,
warm the room’s toes,
weaving winter spells in yarns of air.

Dear,
Will you draw the tapestry?
Will you pour the Christmas tea?
Do your visions weigh you down?
Do you feel the uttermost?

The straw broom weeps across the floor.
Her fingers wrinkle around the ring,
hollow as the gray-bearded banyan tree
with limbs slanting down for tributes.

Wife,
Will you overwinter leeks,
and turn the barrel of leaves
to scare the parrots from the millet
and fell the high tiger grass?

The well handle cranks for clear water.
Her legs bent still swing from the limbs
of a sandalwood tree
with sweet oils,
or the dark blue shoots of an old mango.

Wife, blooming with the moonflower,
never a betrayal from the vine,
speaking prayer by dancing light
to bless our children for the night.

The fire pops on hardwood knots.
Her face lifts to infant coo and cluck;
her hands make sturdy nests for tears.

Mikal Wix was born in Miami, Florida, of green-thumbed, hydrophilic parents. Growing up in a diverse environment gave him the insight of the outcast, and later, the visions of a revenant from the closet. He holds a BA and an MA in literature and creative writing. When not collecting books, editing manuscripts, or chasing storms, he can be found sleeping.