my mother kept a book of stories
sandcastles spilling over yellow pages
wrapped in leather black and brown with age.

my mother kept a book of sonnets
sandy milling grinding down her stages
set and cleared of actors with mirrored faces.

my mother kept a book of sketches
castles pulled down or stolen away
wrapped in plastic and tarpaulin cases
watercolor corpses from younger ages,
thousand-dollar bounty from starving sages.

my mother kept a book of sands
pens and hands and a beach of breakers
washing dreams she stole out to sea and anchor
oceans deep with sunken towers.

My mother kept a folio
and each year, she added a page.

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