An Inheritance

I’m the daughter who
inherits questions -
I own strings that vibrate
to echoes.

My feet belong to an unswept porch -
my hands aren’t wanting
though they only keep 
a rusted blade
with a broken edge.

I hoard hollow squares
and shapes that recede -
there’s also a key
that curls into a lock -
a lock that guards memories

I might create.