Emptying the Attic

If, instead of a hatch,

there was plug and I pulled it

what would I save from the gush?

A tiny jumpsuit, ABC

dribbling down the front like

spilt milk;

old "Paris Match", older photos;

letters from lovers long gone;

a letter never sent;

a tidal wave of books, some

effervescent with old obsessions;

the M.S. of a novel;

badly-painted toys;

oodles of bears (did they breed?);

juvenilia—to burn if it weren't so wet already;

"Rocky" the rocking-horse, lame now;

cards sent to my children to say

sorry I'm not there—I'm away,

busy, working, sorry;

cobwebs; dead bees; dust,

damp and cloying

sticking to my breast as I try to hold onto

everything.