I step into the house my mother was carried out of
but expected to return to in a day or so
(after all, it was only a fall in this hallway
that made mosaic of her leg).
I can't explain how I sense what I know can't be true
that there are others here moving around me
gently as jelly fish,
but not confined to any space,
being supernal.
Though it's already noon, all the rooms
have the feel of first morning light,
when dawn lines the edges of the visible,
stepping hushed out of the invisible,
a parallel world ready to appear,
the realm I once knew at St Joseph's,
the realm of blood miracles and incorruptible bodies.
Walking through her house, I feel her eyes
on my back. She is curious: what of hers
will I take home, which belongings will be let go,
her motive being to understand what I love about her.
I command my eyes to take their sweet time,
to dwell on her dolls and her florentine hat
with equal ardor
so as not to insult my mother any further
by rejecting her possessions.
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