…

Silvia asks whether I ever feel

my mother’s presence, the way we do

sometimes with the dead, who can

make themselves felt, who can feel a lot

like the speechless living when they want to,

—as when that great horned owl

stared at me from the deodar tree

while I was thinning radishes—until

I looked up and saw her glaring

and, not knowing what else to do, waved.

Truth is, I do not feel my mother’s presence.

Truth is, if ever a person were to fail

to become a disembodied presence it would be

my beautiful and practical mother.