From the mezzanine, Mary Lyon fills her box
the way she filled a doorway—taking space
the air had hoped to keep. The paradox:
in situ, she commands the place.
Her brows—two bars, now laid to rest—
lie flat as twin reproofs of life;
her mouth, re-stitched, a hyphen east to west;
that ruler—Old Dominion—like a knife
laid straight across her chest. I find
my knuckles, trace the scars—then look
again: the mouth—the brow—the mourners lined
in black: the cross — my kingdom for a book,
a pen—the lid swings down—and there: the mark.
A dash—I smile—I reach into the dark.