This gift registry is useless
and it’s beginning to antagonize
my senses of style and practicality.
I don’t need pots or clocks
or scented candles like I need
a new roof and a patch
on the guilt leaking from the hole
where my family used to be.
I don’t want cookie cutter drapes
and crisp, contemporary bedspreads,
nor the glossy gleam of catalogue clippings.
I want the kind of warmth in my house
that only comes from a hot young furnace
and the rich, secret past
of every spoon and bedspread.