The Artifacts

All I recall at this date
(neither too long coming
nor too soon arrived)
is the artifacts,

things that I’ve kept with me,
that I knew I needed to hold on to
for comfort or because they slipped in,
unlooked for, and made their own place:

a stone, smallish, maybe
robin’s egg-sized; one end
a grey sky and the other
brown like earth;

my red white and blue
beaded headband, gift of
a Wyandotte woman, back when
I was ten years old;

clothes that do not fit, that
I swim in, that make me laugh
before I bitterly fold them neatly
and put them into white bags

for donation; my father’s knives
dull and rusty — all but one or
two — and mine as well; dozens
of them, useless to me now.

Tarot cards. Earrings too complicated
to put on. Items I shake my head at:
what was this for, what was I thinking,
how much foolish money did I spend

upon this, what was it designed
to attract or fend off? Every day
the list gets shorter. Every day
I shake my head and less falls out.

And someday, soon or late,
I’ll be naked and then my body
will burn unadorned, and someone
will take these things on —

a two shaded stone,
Tarot cards, my headband,
some paltry collection
of knives.

Oh — poems
and pens
and paper.
I didn’t

even see the need
to mention them.
They really weren’t mine,
when all is said and done.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T