Or a coin, or a keyhole. The sculptor Teresita Fernández ventures outside her usual medium to create a drawing inspired by new verse from Matthew Zapruder.
Poem for a Coin
strange coin I would call bronze
on what feels like earth's last morning
I stand in the kitchen just holding
your slight warmth in my palm
trying now to remember
from what country I removed you
maybe Slovenia or terrible Spain
you clink against the gold
I wear on the finger known as ring
on one side a number on the other
some famous candelabra
a solemn crowd once a year
along the main avenue carried
to celebrate Night the considerate guest
that while we are sleeping quietly
takes its clouds and departs
or a shield that long ago
protected a prince from an arrow
so he could become the cruel
organizer whose roads to this day
we still unthinking travel
strange coin I am asking
whose hands without marveling
held you on their way
though you know you cannot answer
some mornings I wander out
below the sun scare some crows
grab a spade and make a hole
place some seeds or a whole plant
my wife tells me what to do
she is holding an orange can
full of clear miraculous water
her dark hair her white skin
after a funeral I have seen
loved ones ritually pound
dirt with shovels to make the rectangular
hole flat and ready for the stone
we can return to each time
to place some object that attracts our eye
for some reason we cannot explain
to wish the souls we don't know
if we believe in to nowhere
safe journey just in case
wherever they are they will know
they are thought of and remembered
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