How does one disassemble twenty-one years of living
in the same house? Dish by dish. Hammer by wrench.
Books to keep, books to pass on. Building materials
all to go. Away. A bit of an archaeological dig,
the layers of my boys' childhood. Each year of marriage
with its own stratum. The epoch of widowhood.
The subconscious of the attic now inhabited,
dreamed within, glossed with paint.
The onion-skin of the kitchen peeled away.
All the bad apples gone to compost.