by Lorna Shaughnessy

He wrapped each one carefully:
his father’s whisky glasses,
his mother’s cooking spoons,
lifted them into the attic to rest
among the tissuewrapped hours
spent reading boys’ adventures
under the steep eaves
while rain spelled out the names
of farflung places on the windowpane;
beside mittens meant for dusting
that turned into friends, puppets
named by brothers bored with their toys,
and the boxed incomprehension
of a boy still searching for treasure
who never made it to the island
or wiped the clay from the buried chest.