Possessions

by Judith Bernstein

Your possessions stare back at you 

Blankly, uncomprehendingly,

Their meaning known only to you.

Objects to others but to you 

The gift givers’ ghosts appear, 

Surprising, comforting, most welcome.

The pink elephant plate from your sister Diana,

The Turkish porcelain vase on whose glaze

Lovers are depicted sitting under a fig tree

From a Turkish love of a week’s duration,

The various coffee mugs with faces

From assorted friends, similarly

Devoted to coffee and familiar faces.

The earthenware pot stained with Arizona’s

Palette of earth colors

From a fellow traveler to its desert places.

The Chinese wicker owl 

Your father bought at a San Francisco Pier One

When he forgot to buy it on his trip to China.

A Japanese bowl once filled with fruit

When it graced a mahogany table

In your home of origin.

The wooden kaleidoscope you bought

For yourself as a craft and then brought

To the hospital as a distraction 

From the long pain that followed surgery.

The Balinese wooden elephant whose legs

Trunk and ears lift and swivel,

A gift from your brother who knows

Your fixation on elephants.

When you consider the possessions 

That fill your small apartment  

You resist the garage sale,

The neighborhood Peddlers’ Fair, and Craig’s list

As their departure would bring dispossession

Of objects that are neither superfluous nor dispensable.

The empty shelves would stare back at you beseechingly, 

Begging for the fullness of possessions once again.