Lover
By Rebecca L. Morrison

“Careful, don’t drop me,”
the shelved girl sang.

Her aria wafted, dulcet –
a web spun sticky with fear.

He handled her heavy,
her ceramic skin the victim
of brambles for fingers.
A clerk had shelved her with

lensless spectacles,
trousers missing their button,
chipped china.

And as she awaited
the elderly antiquer sure to stumble
upon her, declare her a worthwhile
oddity, her Messiah came to her on high! –

dusted her smooth with
soft cloth,
polished her until she

sprang to relevé and
sang to him! – a chorus
triumphant with Alleluias.
He shelved her with

Mexican silver,
white Italian truffles, and
nestled her to sleep in a bed of
Japanese silk, and

weighed her slight frame,
heavy like gold.