What the Muses Leave Behind

  There was a barred owl call, for long minutes “Who cooks for You?”   and the little white dog, turning his terrier head to the sound,    raising his whiskered nose, howling in reply.     Later Jupiter and Mars shone brighter than the satellites.    I suppose it was because of  my mother’s  spreading light.     I am winning at canasta,   I am losing my way as the eldest daughter.   The harness, I mean crown rides heavy.     How could we know that she meant what she said in that late afternoon,   salty, so often her favorite tongue.   How could we heed her announcement, “I am done”    It rang hollow to our intentions.     She made up her mind and a few hours hence, even   before we would finish our farewell, she took her last breath.   My fingers pressed against the fleeting pulse in her femoral artery.   It stilled, and I turned into stone ledge under a river of tears.     Two men took three hours to drive thirty miles to carry her body away.   Sister and I stepped out under Saturn,