Do not keep the herringbone wool, the upright
Hoover or the red galoshes. Never mind
that the wooden wagon of colored blocks still
sparks joy. Go ahead and throw them out.
Pile the coats on the bed as if Thanksgiving dinner
was winding down in the next room and feel free
to sleep on the fox stole as if there was no
judgement in the sad taxidermy of its working jaw.
Make a tally sheet of what to keep
and what to donate to memory.
Your grandmother will help you reclaim
the silver salt cellars and heirloom grief.
Discard that naked babydoll who wets, the broken
cameras and dust. Try to remember that jigsaws
divided into a mismatch of boxes may not be
any kind of useful metaphor, but the Ouiji board
shoved under an embroidered tablecloth and missing
its felt-footed planchette very possibly is.
