Tucson and last I was here was the day my mother died.
Coming down the steps in the airport I rush back
to that night tumbling into the arms of my three sisters
I’d cried afresh. How would it feel to sleep in her room?
To be here, even, after two years away
two years without our mother?
The room is surprisingly peaceful.
The angel’s foot hovers above the bed
my mother’s Tiffany lamp sits beside
for the reading of a good book.
Whatever becomes of us when we die
has become of her. All is as it must be.
We are all where we must be. We are all safe.
I am safe, after all, in this room.