Fall 1989 • Vol. XI No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1989 |

Night Light

For Mrs. Francis Up late again, I sit on the toilet flicking your night-light on and off in the little pink bathroom under the stairs. I am writing on the little scraps of paper you left by the phone. We do not use the night-lights you left to dot these halls. We are taking care of your old house. Last week we bought a bedroom set off an old widow moving in with her brother. Cherry wood. Maybe you know her? Mrs. Santoro. A scapular hung over the bedpost— it must have been her husband's. I gently lifted it, draped it over a stack of boxes. I wanted to put that scapular on. Can you understand that? I wanted to drape it over my neck and say a few prayers for him, for you, for old people everywhere selling off their goods. Are you done with the treatments, has your hair grown back in? Will it ever? I worship everywhere. In the kitchen I pray to the vase you left, the ceramic woman's head. Her earrings have dropped off. I have made her a pair of sunglasses and taped them

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