The Visit

for my mother

Now a field of heliotropes, the umbrellas 
     are searching for the sun and the sky over
          and over rattles the air and you, folding up

under the wet awning your umbrella,
     tap against the sidewalk its metal tip as if testing 
          the solidity of each

(as if to make, again, your point), before you look 
     inside to where those you loved
          are lounging. How surprised I was

in those after-years, after many years 
     to see you, palms up, holding out
          your hands as if gauging still the lowering

sky or to show, as was done on earth everywhere,
     that the answer’s unknown, before you, newspaper pulled
          from your purse —someone, a grainy photo, forced

again to make, as is done on earth 
     everywhere, a bad decision quickly
          (or a quick decision badly) and made with it

a roof above your head and turned then to
     return, the wet print blurred beneath your fingers, 
          the way you came back into the gray air.