Where you are is not
where you are,
beneath the granite bench
and the heart-footed deer,
under cover, under the solder
of limb shade.
You are not sunk you are not skidded past
You are not level, rise, diaspora, root,
nor the chime, pretty as it is,
above the stone field and its tulips.
But once, in a restaurant,
they played your song,
and the house that I have built from almost nothing
is hung about with birds.
You gave your final word
(Beth Kephart, on her own mother’s passing away.)
For Virgilio, Verge, Pilar, Carlos, Cake, Sabino, family and friends who will all miss Pilar so very much.