Where do those lost socks
go? The ones that vanish
between washer and dryer,
submerge in suds and never
surface again? Off they go,
with your husband’s favorite
tie, tossed over the back
of a bedside chair, nowhere
to be found the next morning.
Lost, with your best friend
from high school, who never
appears on reunion lists
or in any Google search.

Your grandmother’s anniversary
bracelet — the one she promised
you — did your cousin swipe it
after all, though she still swears
she didn’t? Trust, certainty, childhood
loyalties — where have they gone?
Your sense of optimism
disappeared sometime in the nineties —
you could almost pinpoint
the election — but to where?
And why can’t you unearth
it, along with your lapsed
faith, that denim jacket
you loved on weekend walks,
your teenage metabolism, French
verbs, the old cigar box
in which you placed so carefully
three conch shells, a handful
of dried beech leaves, your treasured
sky-blue marble.