In the yellow-cake colored paperback in the basement
was the story of the woman double-dipped in gold paint
who died when men covered up the small of her back,
the last breathing spot.

In the thick encyclopedias layering the shelves
was the story of the Temple of Kyoto, where elves
(well, monks) painted urushiol lacquer over all gold leaf
to preserve it from thieves.

But in a lost tale a daughter in the back seat
of a van with dozens of glittering, under a blanket,
bottles, lacquered, and boxes like jacquard, of liquor--
gifts for customers,

or a heist? -- is a mess of poison ivy under the blanket
with the spirits gilded and boxes elongate;
untouchable, though not dying. Spirited
away like a scratching anti-Juliet

-- Urushiol by Ange Mlinko