contains photographs, books,
an entire shelf of porcelain birds,
baskets of yarn, notepads
with lists of pets and
menus of Christmas dinners,
a page titled “My Favorite
Flowers” that reads like
a poem by Williams. And I am
the curator of everything:
piles of silk scarves, glass jars
of seashells, swatches of fabric—
the catalog, the flood, seems endless—
bundles of letters, sketch pads,
paintings, vases, Chinese figurines,
boxes of necklaces, pins, and rings—

until here, now,
is the final piece:
a bright paper flower,
the sole decoration
of her last room, where
she sat alone, her vision failing,
the world outside
masked and fading. The gentle nurse
in the hospice said, The pandemic
adds another layer of sorrow, and

I thought of the Russian nesting dolls
that my children loved, how
each one cracked open,
revealing another self
until the last one appeared,
whole, complete, as solid
as grief.