Response MT.229

by Judi Morison

My lady chose me for her dowry when her father sent her south as a bride. Perhaps my

lattice—tendrils pinned with timber flowers—reminded her that, like a songbird, she

would be caged. When she found she could remove the wooden pegs that secure my

lattice panels—make me freer, more open—did that give her hope she might one day

escape her prison?

To divert her, I display the dishes she buys from the potter on her way to the

market. Her plates flaunt humpback bridges and camellia blooms, ships in full sail and

deer leaping, peaceful pagodas and unfettered figures. Her pottery puzzles the master.

He distrusts the tales its many-coloured glazes tell.

He would choose a heavy cabinet, with solid doors to hold his loot, yet she is

content with my two drawers. The right-hand one—where she keeps her father’s

missives—is pale and smooth from constant contact. The softness of my buttery grain,

my sea of swirls, displeases him. He mistakes my elegance for weakness.

Each time the girl enters our chamber to clean, my lady frets. The child never

polishes me well. My mistress follows with a scrap of silk, and strokes me wherever the

girl has missed a mote of dust. Does my slender frame evoke the sapling I once was,

and take my lady back to her green self?

Steadfast, I wait for her caresses—the kiss of silk, the graze of her fingertips. I

glow at her touch.