My Goldilocks Closet

There’s a place in the back of my closet,
where I hang my memory. I have this fear
that someday I’ll plummet again, that I
will forget how to be happy. Back there
is where I store the purple dress I wore
for my second wedding, just in case
I want to wear it for our anniversary. But
it’s three sizes too big. And that’s a good
thing—finally learning the art of self-care.
There’s that black velvet number, trimmed
with mink, I wore to a country club soiree.
Oh, to wear that dress again—such a classic—
alas, it’s two sizes too small. And let’s face it:
even if it did fit, it wouldn’t really “fit” this
body “of a certain age.” I try on the denim jumper,
the one appliqued with black kittens popping
out of pumpkins. The one I wore decades ago
trick-or-treating with my kids. Somehow, it fits
“just right.” I slip my hand inside the pocket,
find a wadded-up Skittles wrapper, and inhale
the rainbow of my children’s youth.
A happiness I will never forget.

*

A Second Life

Every time I toss an empty Country Crock
into the recycle bin, I feel a tinge of guilt.
But also, I smile.

MeMaw was known for her pantry
full of Trailer Park Tupperware, saving
containers that once offered up

cool whipped-cream dollops atop
strawberry shortcake. Or those packed
with that almost just-like-butter taste

to spread on biscuits. She granted
each plastic vessel a second life.
Some cradled batches

of snickerdoodles
on their journey to my dorm—
small packets of love

to soothe away my homesick blues.
My roommate asked me why
anyone would ship a tub

of margarine. I laughed.
Then I saw her brown saucer eyes
speak of loneliness.

I un-burped the lid,
to open the tub, offered her
a cinnamon-sugared treat,

so she, too, could know
the taste of home—
she, so far away from her own.

*

Labels

Have you ever noticed the women
who linger in the canned food aisle? How
they will stand there in their comfortable shoes,
wearing a modest shade of pink lipstick to
perk up an exhausted smile, scrutinizing and
scanning each label: cans of creamed corn,
stewed tomatoes, garbanzo beans, and soup.
Is it the calories? Allergies? Price?

After weeks in the ICU, he is finally coming home.
I pore over every prescription protocol; key-in
each doctors’ number into my phone; make copies
of his Patient Implant Card to tuck into my wallet.
I buy one of those easy-to-read neon pill caddies,
so he never misses a dose from the armada of pills
fighting for his failing heart.

I scan a list from my pocket. How long have I
been standing here holding this can, reading
this label? I get it now—what it means to join
the sorority of salt seekers. Our faithful mission:
rooting out sodium dangers at every possible turn.
I understand these tedious, loving acts
and the monumental task to save the hearts
that beat in unison with our own.

*

Shawn Aveningo-Sanders’ poetry has appeared in journals worldwide, including Calyx, ONE ART, Quartet, Timberline Review, About Place Journal, Sheila-Na-Gig, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and many others. She is the author of What She Was Wearing and her manuscript, Pockets, was a finalist in the Concrete Wolf Chapbook Contest, which is forthcoming from MoonPath Press. Shawn is two-time Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. A proud mom and Nana, she shares the creative life with her husband in Oregon.