The carbon atom has six electrons
that move faster than bodies move
from one form to another, from
one type of existence to another,
not changing in the changing matter
of the things your mother saved,
though they themselves cannot be saved
or, rather, will be different electrons
when they arrive as the matter
in items that will always move
through the apparent stasis of other
items: small spoons, plates, jars from
her silent kitchen, steadily jumping from
potholders, broken cups, their handles saved
separately. Saved things resting in other
latitudes mostly don’t relax. The electrons
must get tired between orbits, moving
like teleutons in sestinas where matter
repeats itself, though memory doesn’t matter
as much to them. Water from
the pond in her garden moves
in her absence. Impossible to save
things she cared for. Carbon’s electrons
wave in & release each other
without noticing. Of course your mother
could let nothing go. It matters
that she tried. Somehow the electrons
of saved jars don’t change forms
over time but still resemble saved
jars. Maybe distances where they move
ceaselessly gather force so they move
as blended nothings, losing at other
times. You miss her helplessly, saved
by routine most days. What mattered
in her life was love from
an endless world, love like electrons
that keep moving, though, really, electrons
love in other ways, changing from
them to us until everything matters—
This is drawn from “Still House in the Desert.”
