The orchids my mother gave me when we first met
are still alive, twelve days later. Although
some of the buds remain closed as secrets.
Twice since I carried them back, like a baby in a shawl,
from her train station to mine, then home. Twice
since then the whole glass carafe has crashed
falling over, unprovoked, soaking my chest of drawers.
All the broken waters. I have rearranged
the upset orchids with troubled hands. Even after
that the closed ones did not open out. The skin
shut like an eye in the dark; the closed lid.
Twelve days later, my mother’s hands are all I have.
Her voice is fading fast. Even her voice rushes
through a tunnel the other way from home.
I close my eyes and try to remember exactly:
a paisley pattern scarf, a brooch, a navy coat.
A digital watch her daughter was wearing when she died.
Now they hang their heads,
and suddenly grow old – the proof of meeting. Still,
her hands, awkward and hard to hold
fold and unfold a green carrier bag as she tells
the story of her life. Compressed. Airtight.
A sad square, then a crumpled shape. A bag of tricks.
Her secret life – a hidden album, a box of love letters.
A door opens and closes. Time is outside waiting.
I catch the draught in my winter room.
Airlocks keep the cold air out.
Boiling water makes flowers live longer. So does
cutting the stems with a sharp knife.