Although you’re not yet dead we rifle through
your closets and your drawers. We creep into
the crawl, we climb the attic stairs, we brush
ghost dust from books; find camisoles once lush
with lace and latched secure with eye and hook.
We spy a braid of faded blonde, and look!
A half-full flask is stashed beneath your wedding gown.
Whose masks are these? Whose ivory circus clown?
Who wrote the letters never sent or signed?
And why are we, your daughters, so resigned
to never knowing who you were or why
you left this task to us? We do not try
to suss you out. We sniff the flask and drain
it dry. We sell your treasures in the rain.