Afterlife
She taped little labels
to the cast-iron skillet,
a bracelet, a pair of scissors.
A confetti of our names
collected on her effects,
a bone-handle razor,
her father’s, marked for me.
From the other side
she’s saying, “Shave.”
“How about a blue pin
with that dress?”
“Bake cornbread in this.”
“Here. Take this. Here.”