After her death, but only just, we relatives assemble
in what her house has been, her presence lingering
in furniture and cups, food stocks for just in case
a war breaks out quite near. “Who knows! Life can be such a gamble!”
We touch her old bone china plates, the ones with pinkish flowers,
we listen, we expect her voice still echoing
in all that has to be divided, how can we not feel shame
to go through what was on her name and now has to be ours?