Lisa came from away, clutching some secret
To her chest, about her like the box
Of carven wood she cradled at all times,
Caressing in a still born grief, always renewing, so her eyes
Were limned with tears, her limbs, her hands were weak
Under the burden, she often doubled over as if a great weight
Pressed her back, wracked in silent, triple pains, which she concealed
As carelessly as she was careful
Of the box.

The box was never open.

Murmurs curiosity evoked, scattered through the room like filaments
Of algae through a lake when the sun, effulgent
In the early glare of dawn, scatters the tatters of lichen that from twilight
Keep the sky in curtains, battered darkness, and likewise overpours
The minstrel moon. Some guessed
It was a music box, the figure of a ballerina
Carved in ivory kept to curve and sway in life-like grace, others tested
Letters, perfumed notes, the keepsakes of a lover
Lost at sea; but at least one woman suspected,
Old, and worn away like cliffs by time
In passing waves, collections of a life yet
Set in disarray, fragments of memories, photographs, candy
Wrappers, everything that might evoke the endless loss
Of emptiness. Miles heard these scattered conversations
While he tended guests; there was an especially hollow
Space where a grand log fire blazed
At every hour. Couches carefully arranged, end tables
And Ming vases, delicate tulips aided the guests
With a distressed, luxurious comfort, and often reclining on leather
They worried away the weather, rumors, providence
And pardons, and sips of yellow tea
Strained through yellowed teeth.
When Miles came to fill the stoved abyss
With freshening fire, smoking like a pyre
Of pinewood scent, he assented to ascend the surge,
The busy, wired rumors, humming from one end
Of the idle room to idyll galleries, on, so to speak,
The further shores; the tide of conversation
Crested in crescendo. Mrs. Foss, an eastern lady

Who'd amassed a western fortune, stayed a perpetual rent
On the second floor – a room of lush carpets,
Persian, peacock feathers, couches of feather down
And portraits of staid matrons, respectable, household appliances,
Faithful, reliable, as set as the cocker spaniel
Setting on her rug. A once society's matron, a woman of much power
And great pearls, long fingers curling to delicate
Nacreous edges, deep sunk eyes, her eyebrows
Ledges by the ledgers of her face, friendly, wasted by and
Wasting time, she made a practice
Of his guests, she met them, learned their stories, squeezed them
Dry like lemons of their juice,
Then let them loose. Not all, of course, fell under her familiar spell:
Honeymooners nervous to quell
The whirlpool of passion avoided her the way a vintner shuns
The shriveled grape; men of letters (and there was
The amiable, occasional Ph.D., on holiday
To study) hated gossip, avid only
Of long dead passions, famed conspiracy in well established
Books, and burning looks
In dictionaries, stationary holidays; and these,
Who talked of persimmons and parsimony, laws, symbolic
Larcenies, the aged mum avoided in the harmony
Of mutual and contrary persuasion. There was no occasion
For such tensions in her life, she liked predictable
Tears and tears, chamomile
And soggy pears. It was she whom Miles held
In peculiar confidence, and she appraised young Lisa
When she came, before she went.