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My mother, poor woman, lies
tonight in her last bed.

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Perhaps for her it's snowing
through her darkness.

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I swallow down the
goodbyes I'll not

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get to use, round and tasteless,
with wretched mouth water.

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She and I, whatever we
were, we are nearly cured.

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And leaving my last class
of junior high school

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students in Pittsburgh,
the youngest of them

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runs after me in the snow.

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"Goodbye," she cries.

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It is snowing.

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Her face is crossed by the snow.

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The snow will snow,
tears will spill.

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History will give each of
them a map of the human face.

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There is nothing to say.

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The street is empty.

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Down there, at that
corner, Sibyl, the youngest

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of my darlings, caught up
with me once and hugged me

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and told me goodbye.

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