The void reshuffles the deck, your card from a sister life. Poet, explain who sends these postcards from a sister-life? Her fingernails leave quarter
There is a certain kind of forgiveness between mothers and daughters that fathers cannot understand. A certain kind of blue glass shard. A bitter
I have given my mother’s body into others’ hands; have trusted her unsteady gait, her porous bones, her sleepless nights and the music she