The Finishing Touches

While I try on her rings,

her pearls spill

out of a black velvet pouch

into your palm. I can hear them

clicking between your hands

like metal jacks shuffling in our childhood.

Drawer by drawer,

through all her jewelry and her scarves,

her gloves, her handkerchiefs,

the two of us sift slowly,

choosing what we want before packing

the rest in boxes to give away.

Preoccupied,

you still hold that strand,

looping and weaving it around your fingers

before you slip it, cat's cradle-like,

onto mine. The whole exchange

must have taken years,

but how hurriedly

at her closet, grabbing those hangers

by the neck, you sling

that load of clothes over your arm

and cross the room

as if you didn't feel the hollowness

in all those coats and dresses

you were hugging to your chest

or the wire hangers

pressing through the cloth

like neck and shoulder bones in someone frail.

how matter of fact we are

taking out the hangers, folding

and stacking clothes, the whole time

holding what we cannot grasp.

Wool, cotton, silk-

as if that's all there is to it.