across the nile

as I stand
here ironing a white shirt
for the funeral
I think
about my mother
holding a can
of spray starch,
a basket of clothes
at her feet.
I see her arms,
those long fingers,
he black hair
under the raw light
of the laundry room.
the cement floor.
I see her
turn up her transistor
radio
when the platters come
on. I see her lips
move with the words,
see the pyramids
across the nile.
she's was in heaven then,
as she must
be now.