Here they come: your long-gone
mother and grandmother shucking corn
under the bonsai on the windowsill,
laundry flapping around them—half mad
          with the oncoming storm.

And here’s another familiar phantom—Carol
from Maine, back with the mail after trudging
barefoot through snow—the OG genuine article,
your junk-store seeress, clandestine abbess
          of the discarded & lost.

She takes her place beside you as you
go on with the dishes, listens along
to the gurgle of the faucet & the space
          between thoughts.

Your freshly painted kitchen fades into a mildewed
basement hung with basketry and old bottles.
Cobwebs festooning the rafters like threadbare veils
          from the called-off wedding.

You’ll buy two micmac baskets to hang over
the brick oven, which you’ll cherish for the scent
of sweetgrass and for the makers who wove
them so tight they could carry water. But, of course,
          you’ll leave them behind with the rest.

And anyway, it’s over now. This is where we get
to watch it dissolve in our hands—to come back
to ourselves, to saucepan and sponge.
          Bubbles breaking in air.