It's not about display
I have this special spot: It's a secret.
I will tell you though, now we know each other, a little.
There's this space
at the back of my kitchen cupboard
above greased-up tiles,
above scarred glass elements.
It's dusty dark but dry enough
to store precious objects: a volcanic rock
from the top of Africa's Kilimanjaro
and a tiny cup
with which I was fed poison, sold jewels and almost died.
The jewels are here too, Aquamarines in a little box with a cat on the lid.
In their oblique surface I see his reptilian face,
eyes without lashes
long fingers spooning liquid,
rapping the table like impatient spider's legs.
There are other things here too - amid them I place
a blue book and its formulas.
I close the cupboard door. My cabinet is a secret one -
it's not about display, it's about keeping things
You won't tell any one -