There's an old frying pan, some clothes, assorted trash mixed into a nest of driftwood, but we can't find the diamond ring, nor much trust amid a sleeping beauty hedge with her limbs bonsai, slumped away from grandchildren toward some aesthetic weaned on motor oil jugs and dental floss unspooled. I like it she says, back toward the lone window with the blinds glued shut. Away goes her mom, away goes her boys, her book of laurels, her yellow pads streaming non sequiturds. Asterisks and arrows, highlighter battles, every other notion underlined, her right hand with a death grip on the TV remote that crushes juice out of the wee battery. Everything worth a look fits in a small backpack and all but a chapbook of photos is shit. She's elated I find some tiny scissors, put them in my purse which has an old bank card in it but nothing else. We used to drive around Portland, she'd point at sheds, barns, homes. I could live there, and I know where to find an old frying pan.
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