The Migration Of Mother’s Clothes Poem by Sheena Blackhall

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