The Babble of Mrs. Barrenger
In the attic of my heirloom home
live tied boxes of bundled letters,
stiff and yellowed as old bones,
chipped flowers, children, and friends.
It has been suggested I throw
them away—those framed girls are grown,
handsome boys creak by like men,
slow as my eye across the wavering page.
But still, the pile breeds, one box begetting
another. And I am afraid of forgetting.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt