No grief this fall until
I open your book
of suitcase poems–
they haul out everything
I thought I’d packed away
¶
like my aunt,
jailed and beaten,
who fled across a border
leaving everything precious
behind.
¶
Memory is empty
as her duffel bag
which hangs itself
from the cellar hook–
you remind me: slit the vinyl,
find the smuggled jewels.
“For shannon bramer”
Question and Answer
Alison Pick
with permission
