On Parting

They sold the house
when I was away. Coming back
to packed cutlery and new outlines
– my bedroom suddenly
vast, the floor cooler than
ice and the sun closer,
somehow.

We left the flowers
for their graves. The movers
broke most of the porcelain.
Gold-rimmed saucers no one used.
My father looked for well-lit
park-facings. My brother
for balconies. And my mother, she
only asked for a small share
of quiet, undivided
air.