Sometimes she dreamed through her grandmother’s 

(you do it too. Confess. Now.). White and black

pictures bloom into color. Family lies

got exposed like film under red light. She’d pack

the thing left in monochrome, then disguise

it with night make-up—in dreams she had tools—

She’d smuggle it from the past into time,

then let it blush by her bed. Relics lack

substance, but they can grow real again. She

kept holy cloths handy in case someone

happened past her room—they must never see

through the spells she’d been taught by evil nuns.

She enjoyed those old eyes, the ancient tools

left on night’s workbench—Awls. Hammers. Scythes. Keys.