Slender Offering

By Lucie Brock-Broido

February 23, 2026

Everything has its dwindling.
          Everything was dwindling.

The old elegance of my heart became as small
As a coffin carved for a scarab which lived

Three thousand years ago and died of sun
And scalpel, supernatural, but musical.

Half a life ago, when there were blizzards,
We would steal milk from the chimera’s young.

Such small unnatural selections as we are.

The love of me—impossible as a boat made of the orchids
Of Numidia which you keep cased in a bottle

          Blown in the shape
          Of certain kindnesses.

Things rust. No evidence of birds; no evidence of flight.
I am glad I will not be here when the world is warm.

—Lucie Brock-Broido (1956-2018)