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His Boots  - by Jayne Benjulian

depoetry
May 28, 2015


1
Jefferson’s boots
stand against the wall, they are small
for a man who shaved off the top
of a mountain for a view: Blue
Ridge and one thousand yards of mud

2
In the cellar,
kitchen, beer production, stables,
carriage bays, wash house, two privies—
a pit under the seat connects
to a sink hole in the blue hills

3
Hours, minutes,
days his clock weighted with cannon
balls, a small miscalculation
left six in the hall (Saturday
beneath the floor), everywhere bells

4
Atop the dome
a Chinese bell, its ringing finds
the quiet mind, bang nails, plant seeds,
spin, iron, fold, Monticello
rings its perimeter with sound

5
The morning she
died, Martha placed in Sally’s hands
a silver bell, the timbre of
desire, Martha wants, Sally
runs, always Sally runs. Paris:

6
Sally rings it
when she is alone in her room,
sick for home. So like his voice, this
bell, wanting, wanting. He calls her
name as if it were a question.


Read more of Jayne Benjulian's poems in the Spring 2015 edition of the Delaware Poetry Review.