She hangs in the hall downstairs*


Sitting with my legs crossed, Turkish-style,
swallowing the dusty air of the attic,
I am going through her bumper-sticker collection,
gently turning the light pages of the albums.

I read all of them, and chuckle cautiously:
"A woman's place is on the horse;"
"Kids who hunt and fish don't mug little old ladies;"
"I wanna be like Barbie .. that bitch has everything!"
"The driver carries no cash … he's married."

She would get them from novelty catalogues,
little gift shops in Troy, Rome, and Utica,
Or from her sister in Arlington,
who sent them in padded envelopes,
with some bird or other on the postage stamp.

She hangs in the hall downstairs,
her body hardly swaying at all,
her hair and make-up still light and perfect,
like the blue summer dress she has on.

And suddenly, I picture it:
Her coffin, covered with hundreds of stickers,
quick, bite-size morsels of wit and politics,
following her into the ground,
like spots on a leopard.





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*The title comes from "Second-Hand Coat," a poem by Ruth Stone