Those mornings we rose to the newspaper
splayed across the living room floor, enough
red ink for a murder scene, our mother
poring over classifieds: everything
given was received, sought was found.
Here, a couch made home by wasps
last summer, a canoe portaged a county
too far, our city rivers thick and silted.
Every harvest took planning, the hand-
drawn map pointing the way from one
discarded oasis to the next and, on her
return, the living room became an orphanage
of mis-matched furniture and crooked lamps.
The house was a weakened body after a vital
transfusion––every surface new and flushed
with life, none of it recognizable as our own.