On Selling Up the Family Home
Today the heart is a bleak cylinder
for my mother who has stopped wishing for
the embroidered cloths of heaven, and I
have followed suit. Already
we’ve dismantled my father’s chattels,
five years’ dead, already we’re reduced,
yet the walls speak voluminously.
Distant rage, love, disappointment,
and our library, scattered to the back rooms
of reluctant charity shops, and the photographs
whittled down to the core - faces mostly -
mostly laughing, capable and strong.