Parable

Sandra Beasley

Worries come to a man and a woman. 

 Small ones, light in the hand. 

The man decides to swallow his worries, 

 hiding them deep within himself. The woman 

 throws hers as far as she can from their porch. 

 They touch each other, relieved. 

 They make coffee, and make plans for 

 the seaside in May. 

                                     All the while, the worries 

 of the man take his insides as their oyster, 

 coating themselves in juice - first gastric, 

 then nacreous - growing layer upon layer. 

 And in the fields beyond the wash-line, 

 the worries of the woman take root, 

 stretching tendrils through the rich soil. 

The parable tells us Consider the ravens, 

 but the ravens caw useless from the gutters 

 of this house. The parable tells us 

Consider the lilies, but they shiver in the side-yard, 

 silent. 

             What the parable does not tell you 

 is that this woman collects porcelain cats. 

 Some big, some small, some gilded, some plain. 

 One stops doors. One cups cream and another, sugar. 

 This man knows they are tacky. Still, when the one 

 that had belonged to her great-aunt fell 

 and broke, he held her as she wept, held her 

 even after her breath had lengthened to sleep. 

The parable does not care about such things. 

Worry has come to the house of a man 

 and a woman. Their garden yields greens gone 

 bitter, corn cowering in its husk. 

 He asks himself, What will we eat? They sit 

 at the table and open the mail: a bill, a bill, a bill, 

 an invitation. She turns a saltshaker cat 

 between her palms and asks, What will we wear? 

 He rubs her wrist with his thumb. 

 He wonders how to offer 

 the string of pearls writhing in his belly.