9.29.18
In the back of the drawer,
my mother’s pen.
Gold, with her name on it.
Mislaid in darkness
for how many years?
I hold it in my hand
until it warms.
But when I try to write
the ink is dry.
No words come.
Still, in the silence
of this anniversary
veiling the day,
arriving each year
like a soundless caisson,
…..memory constructs a picture —
…..her hand holding the pen,
…..her eyes alert as she
…..looks up at me, unhappy
…..at interruption —
I stand it upright
on my desk in a clear jar
where the morning light
will pour in, strike it.
For now all I can do is remember.