Welcome back to the Daily Poem here on the Close Reeds Podcast Network. I'm David Kern.

Today is Monday, May 13th, which means that yesterday was Mother's Day. And as I mentioned on Friday's

episode, over the next few days I'm going to be bringing poems that are about mothers, about motherhood,

or in some cases even dedicated to mothers.

And the poem that I'm going to read today is called Not Here. It's by Jane Kenyon.

Jane Kenyon was an American poet and translator who lived from 1947 to 1995. She was married to

the great American poet Donald Hall and was herself New Hampshire's Poet Laureate

when she died in 1995. As always, I'll read the poem, offer a few comments, and then read it again.

So here is Not Here by Jane Kenyon.

Searching for pillowcases trimmed with lace that my mother-in-law once made,

I opened the chest of drawers upstairs to find

that mice have chewed the blue and white linen dish towels to make their nest, and bedded themselves

among embroidered dresser scarves and fingertip towels. Tufts of fibers droppings like black

caraway seeds and the stains of birth and afterbirth give off

the strong, unforgettable attar of mouse that permeates an old farmhouse on humid summer days.

A couple of hickory nuts roll around as I lift out the linens, while a hail of black sunflower shells

falls on the pillowcases, yellow with age but intact. I'll bleach them

and hang them in the sun to dry. There's almost no one left who knows how to crochet lace.

The bright-eyed squatters are not here. They've scuttled out to the fields for summer, as they

scuttled in for winter, along the wall, from chair

to skirted chair, making themselves flat and scarce while the cat dozed with her paws in the

air. And we read the mail or evening paper unaware.

...