Intestate
Risa Denenberg
Start with the cracked teapot. Or the wool blanket,
the never-worn wedding dress with its fluff ruffles.
There is too much, is what. Possessions stain like spilt wine,
objects long rid of stench smell of lilacs.
These are things. Things kept and then forgotten.
In bottomless drawers, bobbins, a thong.
All of this, grounds of a life: cross-stitch-edged towels
carelessly folded, stacks of photo frames broken, an empty hourglass.
All of this. Is only the past a problem that is never now?
How I age and know it.
Sort paperwork, set it aflame, every journal, all that anguish.
It’s your great-great-grandchildren you tarnish now
and no time to make amends. Get rid of everything
you’ve ever loved and forgotten. All of it.
No one wants it now. Build your coffin, woman.
Risa Denenberg lives on the Olympic peninsula in Washington state where she works as a nurse practitioner. She is a co-founder of Headmistress Press; curator at The Poetry Café Online; and an avid book reviewer. Her most recent publications include the full length collection, slight faith (MoonPath Press, 2018), and the chapbook, Posthuman, finalist in the Floating Bridge 2020 chapbook competition.