Keepsakes

This entry is part 12 of 14 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2014

For what occasion did I save
that ill-fitting suit, those shoes
that pinched, that jeweled clutch

worn only one other time before I
put all away and lined the bags
with mothballs? I still have the two

white underskirts adorned with tiny
satin rosebuds made for my First Communion;
and the jade green blouse and skirt I wore

when I got hitched a second time.
Among the baby shoes and embroidered
bedspreads, there is an envelope too

in which I’ve kept relics— hair and nail
clippings, birth-cords: four dried, indigo-
colored discs smaller than stamps,

threaded through their hearts by safety
pins to paper, the way that mothers like
to keep their daughters close.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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