The juicer and electric typewriter were no loss
neither was the microwave impossible to program,
But the bike with training wheels gave her pause,
as did the brass bed that once caught the newborns.
Will those memories refresh the same way the glass
dining table— used for family feasts— recycles,
Or will they dispatch with Uncle Max’s phonograph
and Aunt Lacy’s breadbox?
How long before the image of the stone chimney
rising above collapsed kindling fades,
Or will it haunt like her daughters— identified
only by their ankle bracelets?
Why did she agree to trust the dickhead
she was smart enough to divorce,
And why didn't the firefighters toss his
body in after pulling her daughters out?