Attic by Kathryn Stripling Byer

Not buried but piece by piece carried up narrow stairs into the rafters, her leavings have summered through forty-five seasons of Bible-Belt heat. I can stand only so much of being up here, on this late August afternoon, dead-end of summer in which I come looking for her again. In the usual places. This jewelry casket, for instance.  Inside it she stares from the heart of a foliate brooch that I raise in a tangle of gold chains I don't try to loosen.  She's still here: a face I have used up with wonderings. High cheekbones. Hollows. A mouth slightly open and inside that vacancy, no invitation for me to speak out of it.