Swiftly mounted up; the water
reached to the mountains.
--Epic of Gilgamesh

in case you wonder who took

books and bookcases, highboy, footstool, dishes, rugs--

still good stuff, you would say,

still, some like left-into the west room whose blue walls

you liked best, the artiste's room,

you teased, with its chaise lounge, oriental rug

from the church rummage sale.

I fill the wooden trunk with you pictures,

papers, trinkets, letters from me.

inside my blouse, your silver cross the bishop blessed

at Confirmation, promising to outsmart

the end of the world with a ritual slap to your cheek.

From the face of the heaven's moon,

you watch Earthrise, Earthset, sea-swept phases

luminous as a thousand moons.

In your dusty Book of Alchemy, a green lions melts

raw sun in his mouth, then spits the ripe seed

of pure gold-your mother's rings, bracelet.

In the gruff pockets of your jacket--

Harris tweed, one luxury you allowed yourself--

I find loose change--pennies

To buy our passage across the River Jordan.