Dowry

My dowry consists of poems,
and antique rings from Rome.
They fit my fingers perfectly -
she to whom they once belonged
had hands like mine,
alive, creative, strong.

One of the rings is set
with a mysterious black stone:
symbolising Venus and betrothal,
worn by future brides,
it whispers of secluded
rooms and courtyards,
a sequestered life,
hinting at transgression
of some private,
long-lost Rubicon.

The bronze bands of an undisclosed
romance adorn my hands -
her dark, seductive promises
of Venus, his rose gem of Mars,
found together in a casket
buried under river-mud
after a deluge swelled the tawny
Tiber into flood.

The Roman bride whose rings
I wear, their enigmatic
talismans
encircling my fingers
as if made for them,
has not revealed her name - will she
appear to me, to claim her own,
or is she reunited with her lover
in the great beyond, where spirits
have no need of bronze
betrothal bands,
and cosmic stones?

Not heiress, but custodian,
I keep them warm, and in my poem
I build a small memorial
for two who loved
in ancient Rome.