Fred Wilbur: “20 July 2011”

                      20 July 2011
		                  for Martha Miles Wilbur

I drive toward my mother’s death
through chicory and Queen Anne’s lace,
a perfect Virginia morning—
humidity rising to afternoon thunder, rain.
Telemann’s Concerto for Three Horns
is on NPR, stirring the silence of the car
like a visitation beyond the breath.

In farmland rolls, the Medical Center
lies like a toy left on the living room rug—
mirrored glass, pastel painted steel, red brick—
the dangerous place to be.
The call came too early, coffee gulped, toast,
nibbled through the miles, too late 
for one last conscious hug.

Three generations converge to bless,
and tell stories as if to cleanse 
what kidneys could not in a spending 
vigil for her long life. She will be empty
of her things, her saving—
collections of porcelain dolls, folk tin ware.  .  . 
As executor, I will throw out with a vehemence
she used to acquire, will distribute to siblings
what remains. Her motherness
is her body donation.

On the Medical Center’s round lobby floor,
under urgent feet is a huge compass rose,
rendered in pink, dun, and white granite terrazzo.
And leaving, I hesitate, eyes closed, at the balance 
point of black, receive her final reprimand.