by Allison Whittenberg
The Hard Way
You never know people
till they die
you gingerly page
through their privacy
Those fresh, fateful photos:
mothers in mauve miniskirts,
fathers frying hash browns, wearing floppy hats
After there is nothing at stake,
you find out all that you could have given
A little air comes in,
combats the forming mold that corrupted keepsakes, contaminated
these attic memories
This knowing threatens to sun the was
the is, now, will be more forgiving
Â
… and, Joan Crawford left her daughter
nothing
in her will,
not even
a wire hanger.