Detritus at Dawn

Detritus at Dawn

I learned of black holes from an early age:
My mother swore her neatness was a sleight of hand,
a trick involving rakes and Hefty bags
that in unseemly haste were shoved atop
a mound of mismatched shoes, our dirty clothes,
behind the winter furs, the musty suits,
an ancient travel case—and yet I knew
the woman was a witch. I never found
black plastic bags, leaf-rakes, or detritus.
Neat rows of high-heeled shoes, a make-up bag,
a pearl-handled, empty-barreled gun,
a hundred matchbook souvenirs, and suits—
matched smartly with an endless set of ties
(worn once) I'd given Dad for Father's Day.
That's when I knew the brutal truth, of junk
she'd rounded up and made to disappear.
Can't say now, was it awe I felt, or fear,
When contemplating closets through the years?