—photos cover the wall

edged in black and bronze,

a hallway dark and narrow

leading to a bright room

full of music—

a looking glass

set at an angle

encased in antique silver—

gold coins from the courts

of medieval queens and kings,

small dolls from Lapland,

a fancy shopping bag

from San Francisco

that mentions Hamlet

and his father’s ghost—

a spiny hand-painted sunbird

with an emerald in its throat—

masks you can wear

when you need to be excused

but have no excuses—

my mother, nine years old

a sweet bored flapper

with nowhere to go

her mouth full of shiny

uncirculated requests—

names, joys, sorrows

beneath floorboards

that creak in Norse and Old English—