THE ESTATE

Word will come, at last, one of these days,

That my mother is dead. A long distance voice

Will say your mother is dead. Right there

By the phone, I will take it like a Man --

No tears, no hysterics -- but a Boy will pack

A suitcase and be on the next plane home.

He will sit, in a window seat, near the controls,

Just behind the cockpit, and, scanning the stars,

Will imagine, once again, the lamentable return

From the grave-site -- his older sister and he

Dividing the furniture both grew up with:

The velvet sofa, the hand-painted fruit plates --

They go round and around the rooms until

Sideboard, highboy, and breakfast bench -- all

Fall to the children, as their own, to keep.

Flying back, the next night, among the stars

He will see, up there, Orion's glittering belt

And sword and Cassiopeia's beautiful chair.