The Hard Way

by Allison Whittenberg

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

… and, Joan Crawford left her daughter

nothing

in her will,

not even

a wire hanger.