Coal Bin
Some witchy and slinky,
ready to coo on a pillow,
others nun-like, eyes open
with the wonder of a startled
sleepwalker—all bluntly bare.
My uncle stashed his harem
of goddess statues
in our coal bin
where I caught him
at the casement,
turning his bronze minxes
and virgins this way
and that, as innocent
as the slow boy next door
who spun a huge top
by a string above his lap
as he sang the hymn
about shepherds and sheep
on that street that was less
pasture and more tray
of ashes stubbed out
by the hand of the lord.
