While My Mother Dies

Leaves brush against a window.
One branch breaks, almost pierces an ancient screen.
Within five dark brown sacs, spiders wait. I smell history:
A glue gun. An owl fashioned with craft feathers
by a grandchild. A gnome. The German word
for garden gnome: der Gartenzwerg.
Twelve bills unpaid: Is there a grace period?

Oh, remember the print from India, the girl with no eyes
and a basket? Surely, going somewhere.
A, I am tired of being tired. Don’t worry,
I will split off the limb. Why aren’t the maple leaves
more ample this season? It’s true,
without them, we wouldn’t be sure of the breeze.

This season, the woman whose twig thin legs remember,
wake to Stardust beneath her green throw, is called what?

Maybe happiness.

Dillsburg, PA for Pui

The frogs have begun whistling.
Black Walnut trees, their green globes
the size of tennis balls, have not begun to shed,
or to make their mess, though they secret
walnuts inside. There is a retention pond,
not useful any longer, but once good for fire,
if one happened nearby, or for thirsty cattle.
Now it is moss, chomped through branches
carpet its surface, probably poisoned by juglone.
I imagine, like to imagine, below
there is ancient water, water that is glass clear,
where my dead daughter can drink and murmur
along with the frogs. I imagine, beneath the jade
smut and decay, the story of every person
who has ever visited this house, who has ever
tucked the sheer curtain behind the brass leaf,
opened a window, at least once, for air or to look away
from a stupid mistake made over and over, the story
of every person who has needed to hear the high pitched
whistles and squeaks, is gathered, and finally understood,
while the frogs offer the only advice possible—
Listen.

*previously published at r.kv.r.y. literary journal.

Letter From A Scarred & Aging Body

Dear X,

This is my ankle. Its slit of infinite e.
This is my belly. Its brittle scab
Of question mark. I told you
About the car that buckramed
Into mine. I do love these breasts
Suckled nearly two years.

Still I disappear

Need I disappear?

**

I love the brown brick buildings. Limestone.
Do you?

My daughter and I. Light swipes
A silver door. Someone is singing:
Oh What A Beautiful Morning.
We walk quickly because he is tone deaf
And annoyed. We walk quickly

Though notice the boy with black hair
Notice her and I remember

A boy with black skin
Lifting my skirt.

I remember everything now.

Everything

**

Inside this body—
Memory—
The hokey song
Inside the scar.

It promises
I will remain
Light against your door.

Its promises
Are not to be believed

As always, A

*previously published in Blue Fifth Review.