It's Still Life

9

Those numbers that perch on fences,
at front doors, the number of planets,

number combinations
on telephone lines like worry beads.

They gather in groups of leaves,
in Navaratnas, in enneagrams,

in graveyards, they call out
their name in the peal of church bells.

They jab at our dreams,
in the circles of hell, the muses,

at flocks of birds flying formation,
and hunting dog in rabid packs.

And when he told her number 9 was foreplay to his finale, she was bathed in tears of grief before grief was due its flame.

And the Fates sang tra-la-la
and threw him another bone.

Now she keeps every number 9
she finds locked in a camphor box
under a binding spell,

because nails are for carpenters.