Heirloom by Nikky Finney

Heirloom

Sundown, the day nearly eaten away,

the Boxcar Willies peep. Their

inside-eyes push black and plump

against walls of pumpkin skin. I step

into dying backyard light. Both hands

steal into the swollen summer air,

a blind reach into a blaze of acid,

ghost bloom of nacre & breast.

One Atlantan Cherokee Purple,

two piddling Radiator Charlies

are Lena-Horne lured into the fingers

of my right hand. But I really do love you,

enters my ear like a nest of yellow jackets,

well wedged beneath a two-by-four.

But I really didn’t think I would (ever leave),

stings before the ladder hits the ground.

I swat the familiar buzz away.

My good arm arcs and aims.

My elbow cranks a high, hard cradle

and draws a fire. The end of the day’s s

weaty air stirs fast in a bowl, the coming

shadows, the very diamond match I need.

One by one, each Blind Willie

takes his turn Pollocking the back

fence, heart pine explodes gold-leafed in

red and brown-eyed ochre. There is practice

for everything in this life. This is how

you throw something perfectly good away.