The law of touching is parting.

The flowers (once in water) are bewildering.
By the window—and the wall—the colors.
Beauty perched—as on a difficult branch.

*

Her eyes tributaries, my mother gathers all her mother's
clothes, piles them on the bed,
laying each one neatly, unfolding,
holding it up against herself.

She looks for the smell, but the law of touching
is parting—

When will the scent of her ghost away?
She seals each blouse, each sweater in plastic,
sucking out air through the mouth
of the vacuum pack machine.

This is how, she thinks, one carries
another forward—

Shut up—airtight—

*

Come—the sooner the better—before the flutter
because who knows—the flowers.