Poem.

[aquabean]

Sometimes the writing comes from things I remember.


The Green trunk.

Clutter, softer than it should have been. Like down
lining the nest, making it safe and warm. No hard
corners or twigs, because that isn’t allowed. Paintings
and magazines and furniture Mama collected, only God knew where,
and then couldn’t ever bring herself to throw away.

“They’re my toys! I can give them away if I want to.”
Only slightly petulant, more amused than anything,
“There are kids out there who’d love to have them.”

“Well I love to have them,” stubborn, Not Laughing, “I’ll give
them to your children.” A kind of selfish generosity,
interrupted from the other room, “Elisa! The whole house
is yours! Throw it all always!” Laughter, clear and bright,
lining the rooms, like down.