The Enchanted Bells
He bought them at the flea market,
While she sifted through the brocante
For treasures to bring back on the plane
And post on her home page. He noticed
Four bells made of brass without a score
Of provenance or country of origin
(She would later say India when he said Spain)
Etched upon their lips
When he picked them up
Off the vendor’s table. Four bells
Arranged separately, perhaps
Haphazardly, amid keys and hand tools,
Pocketknives, medallions, and doorknobs.
All things old and metal, pulled from boxes
Stacked beside a white panel truck.
Four bells with tags of different prices
Dangling from their stems. Four bells
Like Bosc pears fat around their bottoms
Bought for a price he knew
The vendor would accept
“For all,” he said, for the bells of brass
So cheap he did not even ring them,
Three of which belonged as a set,
The fourth, the smallest, alike in shape,
And similar in design but not pattern.
Four bells, the vendor wrapped in newspaper
And wiped the smudges of ink on her apron.
“My woman became lost,” he practiced
Walking back and forth among the tables,
Until he saw her with her arms full of bracelets
And her neck adorned with vintage chains.
She was cross with him for having left
Her without a translator for her goods.
Back in the hotel while she bathed,
He tested the timbre of the bells
The vendor had wrapped for him.
The headlines were no better
Than the ones at home. Things just looked
Better for him in another language.
Then he tried the bells, starting large
To small, then back again.
Such bright notes, issuing
Like songbirds from their throats.
He found when he chimed them,
They pealed even rounder, and like
A lookout man he was tempted
To cry out the time in four directions.
When she stepped out of the bathroom,
He thought she was going to tell him
Off again. Instead she dropped
Her towel and kissed him with her tongue.