I pocketed them that day
the tour guide was not looking.
 
I nodded to myself that she
would not mind for me to hold
 
in my palm and carry home
such Possibility.

	For my mother

Is the way she cherished me; and you could say well,
that is what mothers are supposed to do isn’t it,
and I would say theoretically yes, but that is not the real
fact of my mother opening her front door and clapping
her hands to see me each Wednesday when I came, nor 
is it my mother standing at her big picture window, smiling
with her hand on her chin while she watches
me skip down her front steps, while she waits for me
to unlock my Honda, climb in and snap on my seat belt, 
maybe arrange my soda, my phone and my purse before I start
the engine, all of this and my mother is still visible
through the panes, in no hurry at all while she makes certain
her girl gets off soundly.  I can still see her through
the reflected glass, tossing a kiss and waving her soft,
aged hands goodbye beautiful and drive safe.

	for Rosemary

Double-bagged for strength, I unearth them,
the piles growing taller and taller 
on the dining room table where we gathered
for her simple and astonishing Italian dinners.
Dust is rising, making me almost sneeze,
as I make discoveries, try to decide
who will receive what, I can almost hear
a low-grade music coming from somewhere
in the background of the visible, accompanying me
as I work to sort fifteen bags of her remaining books–
minor key beauty, sadness that has tuned
my heart more keenly to love.