ON THE ETYMOLOGY OF A PROPHYLACTIC GEMSTONE IN A POEM BY ELIZABETH BISHOP

Looking for something, something, she has run

To Rio, a sandpiper in Brazil,

Where drink will type her poem pun by pun.

(Lines bottled up too long pour out until

Beach grains of opal flinders flash like quartz.)

Poor bird, she can’t tell if the tide is higher

Or lower. Booze flows. Sometimes, the verse aborts

Itself; sometimes, she can’t tell if it’s rye or

Gin that’s soaked her in its thwarting mist.

Printing sand in darts, retreats, and darts,

She skitters back and forth to find that stone

Whose power she would dearly make her own.

The quartz grains mix with rose and amethyst,

Greek for “not drunk”—the secret, hers alone.