All the little tumblers

near the green pitcher,

the nesting bowls,

the rattle of spoons.

All the mittens lost 

behind the radiator,

the rush and return

for what’s forgotten—

lunch bag, book, stark

on the kitchen counter.

All the faces too near 

the screen, Ed Sullivan,

my father barking

“Sit back, sit back.”

All the blessing 

then the beds,

all the needs left

until morning.

How could there 

be any secrets?

The clay pinch pots, 

the coils of snakes.

All the books with

scotch-taped pages,

snubbed down crayons,

missing colors.

All the homemade

store-bought clutter,

all the seedlings in the yard.

The endless cycle 

of our clothing,

mother folding on the couch.

All the longing to be older,

all the borrowed,

broken, gone.

The closets rifled in anger.

When we were finished 

what was left?

All the diaries 

read by flashlight,

the circle dimming,

batteries dead.

All the silhouettes

by nightlight,

the sound of footsteps,

then of sleep.