Blue for Best
I am in my mother’s house
the landscape familiar
past the Blessed Virgin
no reservoir of holy water
now, doors lead to ghost song
the close of blinds, a scent
of self that never left
On the coffee table
a month of dust, a mug
lies empty, I look for lipstick
stains, find your small make-up bag
tucked in the corner of a worn
armchair that fastened itself
to the turn of years
In the kitchen a radio
in the bedroom blue slippers
your favourite colour runs
through the wardrobe
giving life to the clothes
you kept for best but best is gone
and what remains mine to fathom.