out of here, away
from the mystery of it.
The three-year-old pages
through volume seven
of the Interpreter’s Bible,
the kindergartener
fills out an order form
from a Victoria’s Secret
catalog.
They love the way
forgotten belongings
materialize here
unexpectedly, and the view
from our window, so much
more glamorous
than that from theirs.
They love the pictures
of and by themselves,
the scale, the mirror
on the door, the big bed
for bouncing or for lying
adultly still.
It was in my parents’ bedroom
where we bounced,
my sister and I,
until caught, or snooped
for birthday presents,
or slept when very ill,
where all hearts-to-heart
took place, where mother
to sleep off their upsets.
And as though someone
were always upset or ill,
dressing or asleep,
the door was always shut
upon mother’s musical
jewelry box, each bracelet
with a story like a charm
attached, upon father’s closet
deep with the secrets
of old letters, suitcases,
and abandoned hobbies,
upon the muffled talk
of our parents’ nonparental life,
the erotic quietude of it.
My girls are helping now
to fold a load of laundry,
struggling not to touch
the guitar on the rocker
beside the window. Soon
they’ll fetch a book
or six and beg for stories,
or weigh themselves,
or watch me watching them
in the doorback mirror.
Perhaps one day
they’ll write the letter
I never got around to sending:
“thanks for everything”
is all it would have said,
“I liked especially
the part where I was small.”