Packing Mom's China
The porcelain boy paused mid-step
among the squat teapots and toppled goblets,
the only one not mended with ambering glue,
bemused by salt shakers too good for food,
witness to the dawns and deaths and silent eating of toast,
he believed this would never change.
It’s been eight years since she boiled and sugared and funneled
the peaches, the house smelling of heat and honey,
a dozen jars rattling in the roiling pot like trapped crabs–
Now, they huddle along the laundry room wall
under a graying layer of soap flakes, of lint
of hundreds of flung flannel pajamas
floating down from the shoot
like a shroud.
– Teresa Kiplinger
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