At an auction of Jacqueline Fahey’s art,

all your old teachers in their

batik headbands drink Henkell Trocken

and swing parrot earrings from

pulled lobes.
Every face is almost the one

you want to see and

every conversation about a

daughter that isn’t quite you – 
she’s an awfully clever scholar

she’s beautiful at science
and her algebra is simply

magnifique.
On the floor a river of pee-wees,

clinkers and galaxies roll in a

stream toward a small hole in the corner

of the room 
and children scrabble about on

their knees dragging collaged

party hats behind them like

parachutes.
From downstairs there is

a rhythmic thump

                       thump

                           thump 
where a Morrissey concert

that you’re dying to get to has

already begun but 
the auction hasn’t started yet

and you’re fretting because you

need to get away and because
you need that painting, the

one where your mother,

finished teaching for the day,

sits at a table 
her diamond rings hazed in

Pall Mall smoke 
and the wispy brown

quarter-moon of a

child’s head can be

seen to rest against

her knees.