THE JEWELRY BOX, THE ROOM OF LAVENDER AND DRIPPING

Otter Creek lulling,
spitting damp air
where lilac curtains
were taken down. My
mother, older than
my grandmother was
when I dreamt and
shook in this room,
sits on my old bed,
the dusty jewelry
boxes spread open.
"You lost so many
of my earrings,
honey, but like the
Lindberg doll you
ruined, I let you."
Rhinestones tangle
with pins of horses
in the box where a
ballet dancer used
to twirl to "Dance
Ballerina Dance."
My mother pulls a
silver dollar to her,
tries to read the
date with the one
eye she can. Remember
the leaves in the
whirlpool? I held
you in this bed when
you moaned with
chicken pox she says
years after the Nazis
I still dreamt they'd
sneak into the house.
Rhinestones cloud over
like an eye, the bracelet
of Cuban coins from David
before he said "suit your
self" when I asked if
I should wear the yellow
evening gown strapless,
then didn't say a
thing. Hearts of
rhinestones, silver
ballet dancers for
ears, lavender hoops,
lavender flowers.
Fraternity pins from
loves whose names I
don't remember,
rhinestone spray Ron
Agasipour tried to peal
from me, like the black
dress of transparent lace
in the Middlebury Inn
over where the Junior
Women's Club dance
droned on. My mother
untwists silver chains
pimply boys thought
would make me want
them, says her fingers
don't  work. "Take them
back now or throw them
out," she says of these
fake jewels in their worn
cocoons of silk and
velvet as if they were
dead babies I could bury
under the floor of my house
to wait for their spirit
to bring back what's gone