Megan Anderson Bohigian

in fasteners of every ilk, a rattled mess
inside a fruitcake tin, its words long scraped away.
Still taped inside its dented lid–the razor blade
my mother used to rescue what she could as we outgrew our clothes.
She freed white buttons from worn-out shirts,
and kept them straight by stringing them
like beads on swags of colored thread. Among
the many strands of white are two large
purple buttons from the overalls
she sewed for me by hand when I was four,
and tarnished buttons stamped with anchors
from my brother’s sailor coat.

Here, a scattering of unmatched pearls, sliced
from single gloves whose mates were lost, in days
when ladies only went downtown
in hats and gloves. And tied together, relics
from my phase of active dreams–the metal hook and eye
my parents used to lock my bedroom door
after finding me asleep outside at three a.m.
Here’s a random sliding bolt, and nickel washers
I used to wear as rings, three keys with missing locks,
two locks that have no keys, car keys on a metal fob,
from the Rambler my mother loved and named
and wrecked. Below all this, a bed of colored dust