Mother in the Assisted Living, and: Selling the house, and: Paint Fumes, and: Selection, and: Piano

Mother in the Assisted Living

1. We are at a table by ourselvesshe has accused the staff of stealing her bathing suitand the other guests of being mean to her

2. She raises her chinshe says she sticks up for herselfwe have had this conversation before

3. The staff is mostly Dominicanshe says the staff is anti-Semiticor they hate her because she is small

4. My husband does not visit because the smellmakes him illhe says and I understand this

5. She shows me her room with the plant on the windowsillshe shows me where she storesleftovers from her dinners

6. When I visit I trim her white naturally curly hair,she has no idea that she is beautifulas the shekhina herself

and I tweeze her facial hairsbecause she does not want to look like the beardedlady in the circus

then I hug her and she hugs me like a clampoff we go for a rideto the mall

time travels like the windand in the fall the maples along the turnpikesway with mature pride

the pure pride of survival

Selling the house

The attic is finally emptybare boards and a hanging bulb

the basement is sealed against floodinglike a veteran who can't remember a thing

painters have plastered over the craterswhere my son punched a wall and as to

my study that offered me language and blissI faithlessly abandon it but hope the buyer

will soon enjoy a cascade of creativity—may she and her husband contribute

pleasurable odors to the master bedroommay their girls post pop-star images above their beds

let the living room fill itself with musicthe dining room with conversation

let the kitchennever lack for garlic and wine

may cardinals and jays continue flashingtheir color wheels outside the kitchen window

let the laundry alcove my husband createdpride itself on its convenience

let the big back yardbe flowery and herbal

Oh house, please don't cryI mean these words for a blessing to you

Paint Fumes

They have been painting our house all weekto get it pretty so we can sell it

the whole process is disorientingam I making a terrible mistake

all these years wanting to live in the citywanting to leave the pale suburb

is my brain a mere cauliflowernow I am lying in bed trying to nap

breathing the fumes shallowlyas if they are less poisonous that way

as if I can sleep and be a new personwhen I wake up

here in my humbling dotageof what delusion am I not capable

Selection

The selection of books takes monthsI feel exactly like a Nazi officersending some to the left some to the right

deciding which happy few I might read again, feeling the tensiongripping their pages like teens at a dance, players before a game—finding homes for the wallflowers, the benched ones

in libraries fleamarkets second-hand bookstoressadly I throw away the ragged ones, the onesI have abused by excessive attention, I release them

from their suffering—goodbye dear college anthologiesI learned names and dates from your pagesI learned the passions exaltation and despair

Piano

Any takers for this poor old pianotop of the line three quartersof a century agoin need of cleaningin need of tuningmyself in need of getting rid of itright nowand the music trapped in its body