The Knicknackery Issue Six | Page 15

15

Heirloom

Sometimes,

when I swim in the lake shaped

like my mother (yes,

scored by the frantic re-

location

of earth's poles

thirty-four years ago) & when

commas brush

against my feet & thighs

in water

clouded black

with ink, I can see into my chest

by the glow

of the flashlight it contains.

Sometimes

I inherit a lake bed spangled

with 70 golden

heirloom years, which I

excavate

for veins of

regret & apology & love

or whatever

feelings words like regret &

apology

& love

conjured in my mother, who is

this lake, shaped

perfectly, unlike this apology.