II. The Storage Facility

 

Dear Mom, I’m here at René’s 
Van & Storage. What a scene. 
All your brother’s furniture 
sprawled in an aisle. This place is 
an arctic echo chamber 
moated by monstrous locker 
ghosts. No decorating scheme, 
not one single fragment of 
gelt to be seen. No Louis 
XVI armoires, no Persian 
rugs, no Gallé vases. All 
the crème has already been 
skimmed. And re-skimmed. A rico’s 
leftovers. The workers have 
staked out their pieces: One man’s 
surplus makes another man’s 
jewels. Let’s pray that one man 
gets the round cherry table 
and eight unmatched chairs so that 
his family can dine in 
sublime harmony and laugh 
together over Sunday’s 
menudo. Or posole. 
Unlike family dinners 
at your brother’s: baked chicken, 
brisket, squash pudding, apple 
sauce, honey cake and sherbet. 
Such superb cuisine. Such a 
deflated ego. You were 
treated like a Queen. I was 
cremated. Mom, you know how 
it goes: You really don’t care 
for the relative but hope 
to land quelque chose when they 
go. It’s like ensnaring part 
of your DNA, isn’t 
it? The crème has settled like 
dust elsewhere. (That’s another 
poem.) All I see are boxy, 
bulky buffets and bedside 
and coffee and side tables 
and bookcases and hat stands. 
I open one of the desk 
drawers. The workers are staring. 
Mom, you won’t believe what I’ve 
found: a sealed box of German 
Plastiklips. A thousand clips 
like rainbow runes enter my 
purse (really your old navy 
blue patent leather purse that 
I didn’t dump at Goodwill). 
You’re smiling. One wave of my 
arm, and the men know the rest 
is all theirs––they have become 
heirs: dressers for the nieces, 
headboards for the twins, mirrors 
for a mujer. They’re loading 
the trucks already, Mom. It’s 
time to say another prayer.