Missing Persons

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I know where the bodies are buried 
in my house and can whistle past 
indefinitely before I must dig and sift. 

Almost at once, the remains of a girl scout 
at nine, her green uniform folded more neatly 
than it was worn, the sturdy body quite gone. 

A turquoise bib recalls the chubby boy 
with oatmeal around the mouth that opened, 
swallowed, despite the sound asleep eyes. 

Lost her baby, I heard then, in between 
those I kept; only to find the more 
they survive, the more I lose them again. 

What do I do now with this doll dress 
my lastborn wore for ten miniature months? 

How do I greet these ghosts who haunt 
the remains of the children? The young 
mother who dressed each child in red 

for this photo? The weary one who rocks 
until dawn? The yellowed newspaper girl 
smiling like a bride? Under the most dust 

I find the diary kept from twelve to sixteen, 
about boys, often as not, keening for them 
as if nothing mattered but scouting out love. 

There is nothing here I can keep or discard. 
I’m putting it all back, sprinkling dust 
over the top and closing the closet door 

as if, in the dark, the ghosts will rest.