Every spring my mother’s winter clothes
Began their migration to the loft
Her leather gloves,
Like dead swifts’ folded wings
Were laid to rest in the press
Her fur lined boots,
Like skinned caribou calves
Trekked to the attic floor
Her hats of astrakhan and musquash trim
Were borne up the chilly stairs to their Arctic mausoleum
Her mink coat huddled with its wool and tweedy brethren
In the gloomy entombment of the wardrobe
Up there in the dark, they were wiped from the mind’s slate
The fickle body forgot them
Turned to the breezy pleasures of linen, cotton, nylon, polyester
Up there in the dark, they sulked through summer in shadow
Breathed in mothballs like Lazarus, awaiting resurrection
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem