Cleaning up

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. 

If all goes well….

They will not be wearing corsages, nor waving

with excitement when I arrive, 

nor will they lift me high above their heads.

They will have no hands, no throats, 

there will be no talking, 

no need for any of that--

they know everything, want nothing, 

not even music, not even sonnets--there will be nothing

to forget, to sublimate, nothing to forgive.

They will not think about the past or what's to come.

There will only be Now,

and crowns of light rejoicing--for what, I've no idea.

But if all goes well, there will be rapture 

and if not that, there will at least be peace,

there will be no cessation.