A sign above the door invites you
to bring a curse home: tatty kitsch
in heaps, overflowing the clear plastic bins
dividing miniature 8-balls from magnets
emblazoned with dire portents. A docent
lounges against the counter, bored eyes
drifting from face to face as if memorizing
you for a test. The broken legs of Ozymandias
keep company with acts of aberrant taxidermy,
and all the paintings in the art room
watch clattering tesserae of porphyry
and agate drip through your fingers,
the memory of ruined palaces. Shelves hold thin
volumes of local ghost stories, cheaply printed,
fat histories full of half-truths, grimoires
bound in cheap leather already parting
at the corners, but none of it enlightens.
You choose a ragged bun adrift from its head,
strands of discolored hair shaped and held
with worn sticks and rusted pins.
A Roman matron wore the original,
her soul condemned to eternity
in a hall over the café that smells
of burnt coffee beans and stale
potato chips. Alas, we all diminish
in death, but until the grim end knocks
on your door, you can pretend to wait
for a Caesar’s return. The docent
smiles as she slips a lead tablet
into your bag, no larger than a playing card
or a sales receipt. An odor reminiscent
of incense wafts from the back seat
as you drive away, a whispered call
to old gods and rulers telling them
their hour has come round again at last.
Shy and nocturnal, Jennifer Crow has rarely been photographed in the wild, but it’s rumored that she lives near a waterfall in western New York. You can find other examples of her poetry on several websites and in various print magazines including Uncanny Magazine, Kaleidotrope, and Analog Science Fiction. She’s always happy to connect with readers on her Facebook author page or on twitter @writerjencrow.