There’s a lot on this drawer that’s not in use:
a pocket book with ribbon to mark passages
as soon as of some significance, a tortoiseshell comb sadly
made from tortoise shell, a prayer guide certain
in mother-of-pearl. Mom-of-pearl.
And sounds: a blurring of bees within the air
not heard within the wild.
All the pieces directly, she had stated. All that you just
keep in mind have to be written down.
Mattress linens crusing the wind, curtains flaring
past the windscreens, lilacs quickly to lie on the bottom.
There was a quickening within the coronary heart at any time when I noticed him
standing in a subject of bloom and hum then out of the blue not there.
The sphere gone. The home. The highway now below a more moderen highway.
Bushes alongside it lengthy minimize down. No cover of hope.
And the swamp? Who is aware of what grew to become of it.
Skunk cabbage and buttercups, cattails,
polliwogs and crayfish with their pulse-train tune.
We caught them in jars of pond water.
Not for consuming, no. To look at them reside.
Wash your mom’s garments one final time and put them away—
like wrapping a scoop of snow in tissue paper.
This poem has been excerpted from the gathering You Are Right here, edited by Ada Limón.
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