On Ceasing

Lost moths, we sisters gather home.

A pile of heirloom jewelry
and a book on famous graves
for anyone who wants them.

Post-its dot the gramophone, piano,
the lacquered liquor cabinet,

like confetti/ticker tape.

We stage the rooms; a reverse crime scene.
Plaster-over and replace the screens,
stock photos on the mantle.

The buyers filter in
as water through a clam, laying hands
on dirt-packed time. Our footsteps, trinkets,

skimmed away like flotsam off a river.

All gone except the mallet
forgotten in a drawer;
wood handle, fish house stamp,

passed around for summer feasts.
The bludgeoned shells
turned red from the boil,

lay broken at our feet.