The salesman guarantees, “Them real good pots,” 

then coughs, corrects himself: “Top-of-the-line 

copper-clad cooking tools.” She hefts a stock 

pot in her right hand, weighing it against her 

youngest, hoisted on her cocked left hip, and 

chooses a six-piece set. 

​

                                               She hopes her griefs 

will come this way, as well: nesting neatly 

as Russian dolls, the smaller ones swallowed 

in the cold gleam of the larger, little sadnesses 

hidden, and someone approaching, unbidden, 

to appraise their value and help her carry them.