When my mother died, she had a flat
Belonging to social security and the was nothing
Of inheritance to speak about
She had a bookshelf full of books. Most belonged and
Were stolen at the local library and she was selective
When it came to literature.
There were also books Stalin would have approved
Happy workers at a collective farm.
When I came the flat was empty; it needed a lick of paint
ready to receive other clients, the bookshelf was gone.
Relatives had taken furniture and pictures
Which I assumed needed the more than me.
I felt sorrowful about the books they were my mother’s
Soul, most likely they had been thrown away
By non- readers; mind I had read most of the books
She was particularly fond of Dos Passos and
John Steinbeck, but books never die, I remembered them.
My mother and literature go together I no longer
Read as much as I did, but my mother’s eyes are still
There, in my dreams.