My Yaya’s Dresser
by Andrea Potos

It seemed to reign
over one half of a whole wall;
its curved drawers were polished
mahogany waves inlaid
with small vines.
Pulling open the top drawer
required all of my childhood weight
to unleash unmistakable scents–
talcum powder and perfumes
of Emeraude, English Lavender.
And then to stroke the neat stacks
of her handkerchiefs, her hand-embroidered linen
with pink thread–great cursive A’s–
A for her name Aristea, and A, I imagined,
for mine. I couldn’t see into my own
long-into-the-future Alexandra.
In open satin compartments lay her earrings–
silver clip-ons, faceted rhinestones and lapis beads,
one set a curved pod of tiny oyster pearls.
My fingers would settle and sift through them,
inside that cache belonging
of our feminine world,
staying as long as I could.


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