The Things

We walk among her things, my mother pointing

to That?  How about this? And frankly I nod

at everything; I’ll take even the gesture

she makes, straight index finger, the middle, ring,

the little fingers curled under.  If I could.

Failing that, there’s any of these?  Yes, her figurine

toads, pelicans, a snail, a pair of blue parakeets,

even the slim cabinet.  Bought over the years.

Even though I hate to dust.  Yes to her books

unless my brother wants to keep them.  Yes

to the bed she can’t sleep in anymore, the pots

and pans she can’t lift, the sheets, the chairs.

She keeps pointing at her estate without

any signs of remorse or regret.  I won’t mind not

vacuuming when I’m gone.  Remember that.



“The Things” by Jeff Oaks.  Used by permission of the poet.  Copyright ©2013 by Jeff Oaks.