Jess Govier: The Apothecary

With yellow-white hair that streams over shoulders,

fingers pierce webs written on the skin to move over labels on the jars.

My hands are clamped into the dust

of the cedar counter,

                                    and my eyes above the film

watch her in this dark alcove she stubbornly guards as her own. 

The coins sit on the counter, a gaudy speck that shimmers without

obvious cause like the one in her eye. The air is damp down here

and the walls themselves creak and groan in their old age, but there is

a grace to her movements,

                                    a swiftness and surety

the clumsiness of my young body can’t hope to keep pace with.

She grinds up bulbs and roots, tips in powders and potions,

Does she care for those she saves outside her desolate underground?

or does she just relish the scent of mixed remedies on her fingertips?

as she slides the corked green bottle to me,

and for a moment I think she smiles

before I dash into the sunlight, feeling dust settle on my skin.