Everything is the country
of childhood— a dented thimble,
your secret name embroidered
into the tufted loops of a terry-
cloth towel, the undersides of mantels
studded with pearls of drooping,
hardened paint. Let’s compare patterns
in enamelware and gold and white
Corelle; the blue speckled cups
you say remind you of chamberpots,
the flowered wreaths around each
plate. Months when the sky
was a nimbus of fog and rain,
drumming on roofs the map
of the known world to the farthest
edge: where it shuddered and fell.