Two Years After You Have Died
I lift the lid of your gold foil hatbox,
Lined with tissue and the aroma of Frederick & Nelson
(Your favorite department store,
Long out of business.)
I excavate boxes within boxes,
Crusty rhinestone clip-ons,
Clattery ropes of beads,
Prickly brooches,
Plastic bags sheathing slippery silver-chained baubles.
I uncover boxed pearl clusters,
Set them aside,
Seeking the white padding
Thick with your prim, stuffy scent.
Cotton square to my face,
I brush your soft, wrinkled cheek--
In a way I never dared.
You were brittleness, bitterness, strength and bones.
You told me I cried too much.
My skin remembers thin electric blanket heat
In the twin bed next to yours,
Siphoning love from your bedtime stories,
Bracing against your raw snores,
Watching morning dance in your linen curtains,
Shaping creatures in white and blue puffball wallpaper,
Counting perfume bottles posing on maple-top vanity.
I'm afraid.
I've always had so little of you.
Every time I open this box
To yellowing tissue
I'll lose you particle by particle
Perfume kisses my bent head
I open a locket to find my own photograph.
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