I wonder
if the patch of four-leaf
clovers
is still there, half hidden
in the grass, to bring luck
to this stranger’s house,
which
after these fifty-six years
I’ve signed away?
One of the things I realize
I neglected to disclose,
among
those other inadvertent
omissions—
the ghosts going matter-of-factly
about their business,
a few clothespins on the
line
a little pile of onionskin
paper
beside the typewriter
the big Random House
dictionary
open to “verve” or maybe “vervain”
while the one who looks
something like me
empties a wickedly
extravagant capful
of lemon verbena into a
summer bath
beneath the window with the
BB hole,
beguiled that June by
Scarlett O’Hara’s mother.
She’ll find them just a
little slow
to wash the broiler pan,
or clean the rings off the
glass shelf
where perfumes congregate
and a forlorn button or
two, and always
before church a clutch of
irritable hair rollers
bristling over some
imagined jab.
They’ll be no trouble
mostly.
Only turning up the Met
broadcast
on Saturdays a bit too
loud,
exclaiming over smoked
oysters
at cocktail time, or
wandering the hall
in bathrobes, turning up or
down the heat,
asking themselves uneasily,
pretending not to notice,
who she is,
who it was asked her here.
—Christie
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