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Garage Sale I wonder if they know What parts of the bodies I Left around for people to find As they scurry about my Garage sale like bone pickers. In the corner, next to my old Winter coat there is a hand. It belonged to my mother. She was a sorceress who Only used it on Sundays To tie my tie before church And to touch My shoulder when I cried. The people who come here Casually look around, Feigning disinterest But eventually draw near to Handle all of the leavings Of my former skins of former Selves, now shed, Displayed proudly on a table. Their essence captured In the details of an Ornamental box Or in an old pair of shoes. Nobody notices but One still has a foot In it. I used it to Walk away from my parents For many years And to return long Before they disappeared Into death’s gentle grip. Their memories fell Like snowflakes Into my old box of photos, Forever motionless, Stopped momentarily…. For a smile or A bit of family mischief before They were captured And died slowly in this box, Stirring like butterflies, Disheveled, helpless Against time. A young man keeps Going back to my chess set. Noticing it has a chipped piece, He puts his tongue Against his cheek then Offers me half what it’s worth. I want to point down to his Feet, to the torso under the table. It used to belong to me.
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