mother mary anne died a long time ago in wichita,
which is in kansas or oklahoma,
or some other place that looks like a wide, dusty chessboard
someone forgot in the garden last spring.
the tree she planted from the rosary beads
she bought in a paper packet at the seed store
creased and wrinkled and blew away but
her tan tweed suitcase outlived her,
plodding along the side of the road,
its hitchhiker’s thumb trailing behind,
waiting for a ride.
i am creased and wrinkled like an old highway map
and the wind is tugging at my corners.
