Poem by Julie Kane

“And you, Wallace, you write about bric-a-brac.”
— Robert Frost to Wallace Stevens, 1940
The kitten strikes again: I hear the crash
and run to see what Buddha-lesson he
has scripted for today in bric-a-brac
he wants me to detach from, Wallace Ste-
vens rolling in his grave. The saucer smashed
just now was nothing precious, not antique,
except it held an Easter egg whose beeswax
patterns were a gift of time to me,
now shattered like poor Humpty, post the Fall,
and suddenly my study reeks of dead
organic matter—all the same, boiled egg
or Wallace rotting in a marble vault—
who managed to detach from human flesh
though he was flashy-fallen-world-enthralled.


American Arts Quarterly, Fall 2010, Volume 27, Number 4