I, too, get to go through it—the shuck and mill,
like Moses, Eleanor of Aquitaine,
Little Sister Amen, every duck, ostrich quill.
Will there be paintings scrawled, the faded remains

of a “St. Francis slept here”? I think there’ll be
an old couch or two, Tommy Dorsey records. The rug
won’t be much, but I’m going barefoot.
I’ll bring what I need
of my friends and family as I deal with the tug

of memory, the sparrows as they churn
up around me. The sigh you won’t
hear will be my goodbye:
my hand on the clear knob I won’t want to turn,
when everyone I knew will tell me: “Fly.”