Paula Kaufman
Triptych for the Police Officer in Spring
Trilliums During Corona
The sheriff rinses hands in sink at home,
removes rust from nail.
The prisoners cannot go home.
Trillium root is fine enough to
escape through keyhole, bloom.
A sheriff, inmate and trillium
are all locked together in a cell.
Nobody can go for a walk until next spring,
some, never.
Wild
Salem, Va.—The sheriff spent his off day
gathering quartz from creek bed.
Filled floor of front passenger side
and trunk. He pocketed small ones
from creek, shoveled larger ones from mountain.
Played air with singing bowls,
left quarters facing a certain direction
under a stone in thanks.
Shortly after, he found a flat rock, shaped like a gold Buddha’s foot.
At home he placed quartz crystal on bathroom and kitchen sink,
nearest water. Crystal by the bedroom window, towards freedom,
outside on front porch and back.
Everyone needs the river, wild ginger, dogwood,
and long-spurred violet. One night, when his soul wavered,
he let the candle burn all night.
The Sheriff’s House
Is small. Like a fairy cottage. Each branch holds candle.
One wall, supported by books.
Another, music from every nation and decade.
One room sounds like a fountain.
Moroccan fairy lights dapple lights
upon the alter, owl’s feather, wolf’s howl, cards,
a crystal wand he fashioned from the stream’s driftwood
and his own two hands.
—Submitted on 04/23/2020
Paula Kaufman is the author of the chapbook, Asking the Stars Advice (independently published, 2018). Her work has appeared in Heartwood Literary Magazine, Lily Poetry Review, Rusted Radishes, West Trade Review and Gyroscope. She was born in West Virginia, and lives in Washington, DC.
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