Page 38 - vera-kilgore-heilig-her-poetry-lives-(2017)-h-morris-williams-and-marie-law-haire

Vera Kilgore Heilig: Her Poetry Lives (2017) H. Morris Williams, Marie Law Haire

Willful Thrift Makes Woeful Clutter

I hoard like a pack rat—
Throw nothing away—

A trait, I admit, that
Brings pangs of dismay
To my mate who is neat as a pin.

He views with distaste
My refusal to waste

A string or a cork or an old paper bag
A button, a spool, or a box or a rag

Or a bottle or carton, but when
He needs some such items as these, whom does he

Expect to provide them by black magic? Me.
And if by mischance I throw something away,
When will I be asked to produce it? Next day.

Sepulcher

I idly picked a fleck of peeling plaint
Upon the image of myself, a saint,

Curious at what beneath the surface lay,
Not thinking to uncover vile decay.

The base it stood on which had seemed to me
An alabaster box, I found to be

A whited sepulcher. I had not known
There was corruption there. Not one dry bone
Had rattled warning to me as I stood,

Convinced within myself that I was good,
And thanked Bod I was not as other men.

But now I stand aghast before the sin
My probing finger has exposed to view.

What must I do, O Lord, What must I do?

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