To dig below as if I am finding and labeling metal or gems, to put them away neatly brushed,
encased in see-through bags. The invisible cloud of her perfume, buttery brown-edged
cookies on wax paper, steamed cotton, the fox fur stole in the downstairs closet—
nothing bad really except maybe the smell of old shoes. That’s where I unzip
the hanging plastic bag to touch the satin wedding dress, a coolness on my fingertips,
could never imagine her in it even when I stare at the black and white photograph.
A young princess, her smile fixed in a silver frame. Never that happy again. Then
I sway into what has not been but might be. Though I cannot read in darkness,
I try. Everything braille and blossom as I imagine could-be curves and craters.
I am always heading out of shadows. There is no history of words, only distant
lighted window-slivers toward what I want. Maybe what I need.
I am digging for a way out or a way in. If you put your ear close enough,
you’ll hear a crackle, a slight sizzle of the cake letting you know it’s done,
she never said. To listen and translate the language of cake, of hunger.