but she weeps when I ask her to open
a drawer. It blooms before us, untouched
for thirty years, flawless as a still life;
hankies, ribbons, dolls with cataract eyes.
I will look through them again, once
you’ve gone. She resists touching dusty
spines, too painful to move. I might
use that. Do you remember this? Outside
there is the garage, unchartered, full
as a burial ship, rafters brimming with
everything she has sunk, hoarded
for my next life, glittering in the dusk –
