Your Mother Dies
She had gotten trapped between the walls of the house, an irregular paper star
folded in a leather womb.
In my imagination fixed as a painter or cleaner there as normally
collecting wrong answers and buttons
and leaving not a trace.
Finding her like finding water damage was not-long-expected
after the new year.
The parlor caught Columbus Sunday in Spring light,
grass like heaven’s chill slowing the blood.
I remember you as a griever, non-eater, with no
open words. Your father was finally alone
but-with-what alone, standing above her in the yard. The pair
you made was two left feet with shoes on.
Dreamchoked in the orange morning, nothing
could get me to tell you. Not the wide-smiling door
of our room, not your own terrors
wherein I, a box carcass, sound the mort nightly.
Not while we’re alive at least when your skin spikes
in the dark and in the light your eyes soak me up.
What an immemorable piece of myself I have here
left with me.
You were slipping off the bed, mouth in mock-scream
like a child, I peered down the well that opened you
and the silver at the bottom peered back. Don’t go.
Noa Saunders is a PhD Candidate at Boston University, where she teaches poetry, film, and writing. Recent poems can be found in Ninth Letter.