Singer

To my grandmother.

I should have kept the damn thing
just for the memory
of your wrinkled hands,
your wedding band,
nonno’s cushioned seat —
a gold-tawny next to it.
Your foot peddling that brought the warm, cozy industrial hymn.

I should have kept the lovely thing
instead of having to shovel up a mind’s memory
of your curled fingers on its arm —
the others turning a balance wheel
before you and they made the machine sing.

I should have kept the dinged thing
even with all its scars, its dents, and nicks,
its patterned bed and spool string thread.

The sellers call it patina now
as I hunt for a replica of the darn thing.

I had the chance to take the elegant, charming thing,
but a passing brings a rambling after death’s unwanted, lousy sting,
and I lacked the care and attention
to what might be treasured one day again.

I should have kept the beautiful thing.
Not that many use them anymore —
not that they’re extinct.
Perhaps I’d showcase it as an antique,
recall the lessons or vision the views of your mending careen,
give it a go, and try the technique.

I should have kept the dear,
homey, oaken, iron thing
with Victorian trim.

Is this what we become after death?
A reminiscence through something once used.

For you

— bone dust —

an old sewing machine.

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