My mother tottered
    inside to
die, hair
    fluff, white, body
paper. She had begun
    her new life of
no speech
    and could, I am
sure, have taught
     me some
thing. We know
     silent letters but who
knows what
     words are
unpronounced?
Sometimes, I wake
     surprised my bed still
holds
     some of me, I haven’t seeped
out in the
     night, seeped into my mother’s
absence, I sleep
     under flannel
blankets
     she left me
everything she left could
     be used
forever.
     I sleep inside
dreams of her --
     Eat she says eat
she says plump in her
     apron’s paisley, hair upswept,
arms hold
     me, arms stretch, a sandwich
cut on the diagonal
     tuna and mayonnaise
and celery and not
     everyone does but
my mother
     put in a
hard-boiled egg.