The labeling was easy.
Each object got a yellow sticker
and was arranged by color and kind.

Harder was determining the price.
10¢ for the razor I skid down
my shins like a carrot peeler.

You’re so hairy, my father
teased. It looks like you have
a second pair of shorts.

$2 for the hoodie my grandmother
hated. Only ugly women are
lesbians. She didn’t see me flush.

50¢ for the polka dotted dish
towel my mother cried into at night
when she thought we were asleep.

$5 for the dish set my sister loved
even after she stopped eating. Fuck it,
I’ll eat air, her glare seemed to say.

For the knives, forks, and spoons: $3, please.
Price unknown for my Cabbage Patch Kid
my parents sold as I napped.

Afterwards, small depressions
pockmarked the grass
where each object had been.

This is where everyday grief settles—
in a barrette, a Rubik’s
cube, a chipped violin.