Moving

Sometimes there is no real place to call home;
although, cliché has it that home
is where the heart is.  That devalues
a place to weave, to work dough, to make gardens,
to meet for meals, to sit by fires on evenings
when night crouches on its haunches in the shadows.

To be taken in as reward for money and luck
has been many women’s aging lot:
What to do with Mother?

Crones sit in front of windows
wondering where home went, where lovers went,
where children are, and of what use they are
now that hands that patted cheeks, made dinners,
tucked children in, and caressed service onto family went.
What am I to you?

Hospices stack them in rows, plant them in shadowy gardens,
have their hair done on family day, even if no known hand
comes to touch a curl, an arm, a face.
Have I outlived my welcome?

Closing up parts of houses to stay warm, closing up houses,
closing up workshops and washing rooms, folding hands
and supplicating oneself to the schemes of directors
and day shift workers, and closing up bank accounts
to pay for bed and board:  Running hands over old openings,
gathering up only the fewest of belongings,
feigning delight in future dreams, they moved.