Marriage, the Franklin Mineral Museum

You and I start in the underworld, in the zinc mine,
perfect replica, with a linoleum floor and a mannequin holding

a carbide lamp. We start at the mineral dump at the bottom of the hill.
We start with the rocks. Teaspoon by teaspoon, we dig

in the quarry to find the magic rocks--rocks the color of a pink washcloth
to scrub a baby's leg, her back. Rocks the size of a fist.

The gravel pit is splintered light, all ash and bone, and our daughter wants
to talk about "Patriot Day" in school. Now, the kids are allowed

for the first time to tell their stories. Some weren't born. Most were babies.
B's mother would have died that morning but she was home with him because

he was a baby. The place where she works burned down. Rock a dilated eye.
Rocks glowing green as iceberg lettuce. Fever bright.

Rock a split heart, rock all ventricle, rock hard arterial under
the earth where the E train rushes, the day I waited

at the escalator at the top of the PATH terminal to tell you
about the baby. Teaspoon by teaspoon. Our daughter wants

me to repeat the story of how I held her on my lap,
how we watched TV while the tunnels shut down,

how we sealed the windows with towels and cloth diapers
to keep the smoke out. Now, at the shack on the hill,

we wash rocks in a bucket of mud water.
We bathe them in mineral light so they light up, too fluorescent.

Flinkite for fidelity. Otavite for hold me close. Albite for
just get up off the mattress.

Rocks spilled and spilling. Too bright—

Take me to the local room. The Fluorescent Room. The Fossil Room.
The safe room. The room without history.





From Of Marriage (Alice James Books, 2018) All rights reserved. Reprinted with the permission of the author.