Opening Her Jewel Box

She discovers a finish

of dust on the felt drawer-bottoms,

despite the long time

it's been since she opened it

or wore lipstick. Sometimes she's asked

"What are you thinking of?"

and she's so startled she says

"Nothing," rather than describe

a mug with a bite-shaped chip

in its rim, or years ago

killing a cat with carbon monoxide

for love of a medical student.

It thrashed as far from the tailpipe

as the sack would stretch --

ball of fur in a taut lung

that wouldn't work. The cat grew slack

and then grew stiff.

In biology class she'd used corpses

cold from formaldehyde, but

when they cut the cat it was warm

and the heat ran into her wrists.

There used to be two of these earrings.

Erotic memories, how they all

survive, though most of them

need a sentimental past

for a context, or have none,

chunks of space debris

turning in an icy light.

"Nothing in particular,"

she corrects herself out loud,

stunned by the speed of life --

she who used to curse boredom

"Daddy drive faster," she'd urge

because he wouldn't. Time

to brush my hair, she tells

herself, then time to work.

Her hair pouts in clumps.

It's always been thin, slow

to unsnarl. Easy does it.

She begins to sing, softly at first.