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Estate Sale

                                    Mary McMyne


Her clothes do not fit me.
She was wire thin, a mannequin.
I have no brothers and sisters.
Seven black coats sway in the wind.

I’ll keep the spectacles she died in,
her favorite nightgown. But everything else,

I tell the man I married late in life, has to go.

On the card table, brooches, necklaces,
faux pearls, an antique pin,
the cold clear clatter of nickels.
My breath puffs cold in the November air.

Sell it all, I tell the man I married late in life
after I’ve forgotten everything she ever told me.
Seven black coats sway in the end, then fly away.


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