After I’m gone, my children and husband will find

curious treasures, pause to decipher the woman

who kept a ribboned box, Japanese fan, or foreign coin.

To help, I slip tiny notes now for them to know

the black stone brought from the bottom of Lake Monroe

while diving like dolphins with their father

or the buckeye in my battered sewing box, the one

that rode long before in Granny’s pocket, rubbed dull

by superstition’s determined hand

or my dimestore Chewbacca on top of the computer, not

a toy at all, but a sci-fi gargoyle perched, protecting me

from demons at my word temple

or that Navajo eagle belt of silver that tinkled in its circle

around my girl-waist in Santa Fe, the girl certain

she was an Indian princess who could ride bareback

and those dented Seven-up liters of Carolina sand,

the bleached Mexican shells smuggled, suitcased,

from oceans I couldn’t leave behind, all put away, away.