Your Mother Dies

     Noa Saunders


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.