She kept her things
in loving memory of 小老姨
She kept her things in boxes and in plastic bags,
in boxes in boxes, and in bags in bags. She kept
photos, newspaper cuttings, name cards, flyers,
and boxes and plastic bags. She fought to keep
them despite the mess, despite the clucking
and the tsk-ing, and the constant quiet siphoning
away of her things. Once we had nothing,
she said, clutching her plastic triangles and her slips
of paper with scribbled seven-digit numbers
to her breast. She took nothing with her but her faith
when she left. So now, we have her things in boxes
and in plastic bags. And she too, a thing herself now
among other things, kept in what might as well
be a box or a bag. Now, when we have nothing,
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