My Fetish Compartment

Odd thing, this morning

I wanted to put something in my old King Edward
Imperial cigar box,

kept in my sock drawer all these years.
A lot of heavy coins in it—
lid came off a long time ago, the sides collapsed.

So I decided to mend it.
It’s important to me—
my fetish compartment.

So I dumped all the contents on the desk top,
including a miniature leather Imitation of Christ,
with the cover worn off,

a tiny address book, a crucifix,
a pound-weight Medtronic ALLEVIATING PAIN,
RESTORING HEALTH, EXTENDING LIFE medal,

some keys and knives, a St. Christopher necklace,
a booth photo of my sister Mary Catherine,
a photo of my father as a four-year-old.

Three pieces at the bottom: a childhood snapshot
of my first lover Lizzie Lea;
then a page ripped from a notebook and faded,

a kind of map—Up, Up! Up!!! to a cliff’s edge,
then a long long fall
and a tiny figure on the ground running

toward a choice of floating upwards, hair hanging
upside-down beside fly-agaric clouds
up at the level of the cliff again,

or taking a low path through the desert
under the sign of the cross and the relentless sun, fading
into angelic cloud shapes at last;

and finally a small Who Is Guru Maharaj Ji? brochure.
Why do I keep it? The Ji devotee
was my friend Victor.