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William Matthews - Opening Her Jewel Box
Work rating: Low

She discovers a finish 
of dust on the felt drawer-bottoms, 
despite the long time 
it`s been since she opened it 
or wore lipstick. Sometimes she`s asked 
"What are you thinking of?" 
and she`s so startled she says 
"Nothing," rather than describe 
a mug with a bite-shaped chip 
in its rim, or years ago 
killing a cat with carbon monoxide 
for love of a medical student. 
It thrashed as far from the tailpipe 
as the sack would stretch -- 
ball of fur in a taut lung 
that wouldn`t work. The cat grew slack 
and then grew stiff. 
In biology class she`d used corpses 
cold from formaldehyde, but 
when they cut the cat it was warm 
and the heat ran into her wrists. 

There used to be two of these earrings. 
Erotic memories, how they all 
survive, though most of them 
need a sentimental past 
for a context, or have none, 
chunks of space debris 
turning in an icy light. 
"Nothing in particular," 
she corrects herself out loud, 
stunned by the speed of life -- 
she who used to curse boredom 
"Daddy drive faster," she`d urge 
because he wouldn`t. Time 
to brush my hair, she tells 
herself, then time to work. 
Her hair pouts in clumps. 
It`s always been thin, slow 
to unsnarl. Easy does it. 
She begins to sing, softly at first.
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