Estate Sale by Christine Butterworth-McDermott

My body is an emptied house.
Here, you can cradle the soapdish of my skull.

There, my sighs stand among the dirty glasses
by the sink. My dreaming, tagged ceramic dogs

priced well over value. Here, are the clothes
I used to wear, rolled out on racks, on parade

with high heels and earrings and the buttons
you unbuttoned and the belts you unbelted.

I give up the red towels of my period, the utensils
of my knuckles, the garden hose of my psyche,

all the books I read enlarged, the grey window shades
of my thinning hair, the necklace of my clavicle,

the flesh of my sorrow, the brown leaves of disease
floating on the surface of the swimming pool.

Love, when the gawkers have stopped
and the buyers have bought the remnants of junk,

close the door and roll up the rugs. And in the low
light, when it is just you and memory left, pull open

the cupboard and find the last tender vase
of my heart. Fill it with lilacs. Welcome spring.

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