Nancy Keating


The breakables have their memories
under the sun, each whispers about
the people who once loved them,
incantations of loss and confusion.
A cloud of love suspends itself over the yard
as the whispering surges up to the trees
with a rustling of vases and glasses,
a clanking-together of souvenir coffee mugs.
The breakables have survived much up to now,
chips and all – insignificant dings –
and will huddle together here in the driveway
all day if they have to,
cast off by recipients, tastemakers, heirs,
like superannuated bridesmaids waiting
to at least be chosen on the next round
of their journey between homes,
recruited as second-string players
into new pickup teams, contexts,
reasons for being, as the light
slants low outside the yard
with the consolation of dusk,
and the whispering starts to subside.

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