When all else fails, I turn to St Jude
with an inventory of the desired miracle:
annual statements, consolidated tax vouchers,
certificates of deduction of tax
with (from memory) the ominous addendum
a duplicate statement will not normally be issued.
They’re holed up somewhere in the house
inside a green folder (how hard is that to spot?)
Kneeling in the under-stairs cupboard,
I grapple with boxes, tennis rackets, old papers,
my mother’s last walking stick.
Even her waxed shopping bag gets up-ended –
drops onto my hand like a dove.
It smells of her.
Published in Poetry News (summer 2016)