My Grandmother’s Relics

nail-polish bottle,
half-empty,
contents separated from disuse,
a pink as cold as flesh

tangled necklaces and earring
half-pairs—like Excalibur to
Bedivere when his hands
trembled above the water

her youngest daughter’s baby
book, scribbled invocations
of lost teeth, of a goldfish
named Buddy, buried at sea

photos of strangers’ faces:
memories that follow her,
one by one,
into the forgetful earth

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