Where do I put her now
that I am married,
that my father is dead?

I could nestle her among
the pots of pink geraniums she loves,
stick a popsicle stick labeled Mom next to her shoes.

When she’s hungry, I could put her in the bowl
among the bananas and Granny Smith apples.

When she paces the house
in the middle of the night, when she says

your father is at the window again,

I could sit her on the sill, cover her
with curtains.

I could keep her
in the closet next to her favorite coat,
snuggle her inside its brown fur collar.

I’ll take down drinking glasses from the cupboard
when she’s thirsty, let her sip from each one.

When she says

who are you?

I can slip her into the mirror,
wipe the toothpaste smudges,
trace my nose, my lips, my chin.

I can press my hands to the glass.