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Salmon Poetry

For the Love of Things

Anne Fitzgerald

Was Ascension Thursday, so by its very nature, 
no wonder he brought things to a new level 

of consciousness, talking of his mother 
of pearl inlayed card table, brought back from Brazil  

in seventy-two, a keepsake to turn a trick 
on, or simply to stroke, along with his Jane Russell 

look-a-like who exchange nuptials after two whole
weeks, and will prove a handful for his grasp, 

despite his light fingered touch. A good head 
on her shoulders is what’s said. Though, if truth 

be told it be the keenness of her eye draws most 
towards her, some says it be the ochre fleck 

encroaching her pupil, does it every time, as if a fly 
caught in resin, swimming the sticky limits of amber,

colours his emotions and ability to achieve full 
houses or straight runs of sweet little flushes.  

Copyright © Anne Fitzgerald 2012

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