Mary Triplett's House

the owner of the house
a small indian
man,
older than time itself,
tells me
the story of the crumbling
abode.

it's three hundred years old, he
says.
turning slowly around
with his finger out.
pointing
at a mantle, the staircase,
the planked floors.

it belonged to mary triplett,
he says,
then touches her picture on the wall.

she was the prettiest girl
in the county,
the belle of the ball

he tells me. men dueled
over her
quite often. men died to have her.

I believe him. the portrait
is blurred, but you can see
the fine
lines of her face,

the beauty of her,
the hair thick
and full, piled luxuriously
on her head.
she looks
happy, thrilled perhaps to
be fought over.

would I take a bullet for her,
I think
as he goes on and on
about the house.

i'm not so sure, I've done it
once,
but not again, knowing what
I know now.