I speak for the keepsakes, for the trinkets
and knick-knacks that knock about in the drawer
at the back, for the painted shells and local lace
in the centre of the mantelpiece, pride of place.
I speak for thimbles on walnut sideboards – numb
from never knowing thumbs, or the prick of pins,
and for the hostages from hotels in their duvet
of dust, as if life’s purpose was just to be stolen.
I speak for the ashtrays, bells, silver lockets,
the ornament figurines, mementos with emblems
and crested spoons – the stirring reminders
of the sweetness lost in time and darkened space.
I speak for the knitted and woven from way back
when, for the looking, comparing and picking up,
putting down. For seeing it, and for wanting it.
I speak for the transaction. I speak for the purchase.