When I came to my mother’s house
the day after she died
it was already a museum of her
unfinished gestures: the mysteries
from the public library, due
in two weeks. The half-eaten wedge
of lasagna in the fridge.

The half-burned wreckage
of her last cigarette,
and one red swallow
of wine in a lip-sticked 
glass beside her chair.

Finally, a blue Bic
on a couple of downs
and acrosses left blank
in the Sunday crossword,
which actually had the audacity
to look a little smug
at having, for once, won.