All we are left with are ordinary things,
organisation of a bric-a-brac life.
The things that become you,
we don’t know what to do with.
Evidence of what we cannot name,
bagged and tagged without explanation.
The days between we do not see,
and cannot meet you there.
Frank Sinatra in the same envelope
as an eyeshadow jar, screw topped with care,
dusted in silver Moroccan sand.
The vinyl you kept for some reason
long after the turn table became back street art.
Toby jugs of earrings, pins and needles,
white ribbon, ice-cream tubs of buttons
and nothing but blue silky thread.
Betting slips filed in the back of your armchair
archived, loops on pink paper framed
and mounted, as if they were love letters.
Beside endless unsettling carrier bags
a flower delivery card, with dated design,
the inscription bleached out with time.
And hairgrips in a urine sample jar,
that don’t make sense,
imply you never took the test.
The curator assembles her
in small wooden boxes, like art galleries
we walk around quietly, and peer in.
Touch the glass coffins of artefacts
as if a chosen one could wake you up.
An old leather roller-skate in a plant pot
and a wheelchair in the same display.
Smooth manila paper you wanted to touch.
Neatly typed labels of her life,
in an exhibition called Just a housewife,
that tries to give the game away.
Informative captions of
Proud of her family, Mother of six,
Lived for her holidays, once a year.
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