First, there’s a bag, then a box—
And another, then many more.
You fill a rusted dumpster with
Mismatched chipped dishes,
Shoes that gave you blisters.
Those stiff taffeta dresses from 1959,
Still smelling of your aunt’s verbena cologne—
You keep those.
Breathing in the memory, recalling all.
The detritus of experience builds its curious momentum.
Memories trapped in the stone dust basement,
Hurled outward in a mushroom plume.
How do you wipe clean a half-century?
Quickly, an impartial executioner—
Rinsing the blood from your knife.