Initially, it is exciting and dreadfully rich
to tiptoe into a kitchen, you know
where they all keep their Sunday knives
the drawer of fast food forks, a distorted blue
sippy cup collapsed and weeping
warm milk like a Marian icon abandoned
by progress, stop and care enough
to dissect the tea towel draped
over the counter–Mystic, it’s the Key West
wadded up on a Wednesday morning
landscape that betrays the lateness
of their exit, the hieroglyphic Cheerios
and lukewarm scrambled bits
you suspect that in every house
with laundry there is a damp apron, the breast
pocket open, asking you to enter, to touch
your mother who slipped away, and in that way
you won’t leave
empty handed, or alone
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