"Pillbox."
"Originally given to Gloria by her mother,
it was just a small gift accompanying something larger.
That larger thing is lost; that larger thing
could have been a sweater, an ocean liner, or a promise.
For more years than anyone remembers,
Gloria kept the pillbox on her vanity, near her hand mirror.
These were the days of long, cream-colored Oldsmobiles--
cars designed as living rooms--
and glass-bellied lamps with womanly curves.
The rosewater and the Chanel No.
5 mingled with the faint smell of yesterday's gin martinis,
and the wet smell of this evening's in particular.
The pillbox did not hold the actual pills
she took, one after the other, three at a time,
washed down with that same gin, her stockings
off but her blue chintz A-line dress still on, her pearls on,
her Moroccan bracelet on, her earrings on.
The pillbox, with its porcelain top and gold braid
edge, with its haughty bouquet of never-ending odorless
flowers, simply bore witness, vessel essence
intact, emptiness untampered with, sightless eyes open."