The hope chest contains
what my mother wants
me to cherish
in the future—
lace curtains that lift
like a glove at the height of being
tossed; a substance bracing itself
with an absence.
The curtains are pressing
in neat squares at the scented heart of a trunk:
folded so that a rose-shaped hole
reinforces another rose-shaped hole, so that
every threadbare layer
eventually makes
an opacity.
In my mother's mind, a permanent sturdy rod
holds the imperceptible
work of needles.
Panels breathe
like starched diaphragms
in my future window. A supposed wind
bulges there & barely
in the mind,
lifting only half as far
as the mildest breeze: the least
sustainable of all gusts,
fickle & quick
to let the curtain fall,
whereas strong winds endure
all day, and the windows are closed anyway.
