Fall 2016 (Volume 20, Issue II): 20th Anniversary Issue
MY MOTHER MOURNS
In her island cant, her ancient slang,
my mother wails across a thousand miles
of water dead between us—
a mother has no age, the static in my palm rages
and shakes my breath from miles away, so many
I can barely feel, gazing at her loss, the broken
shell of her talk splintering through this
little foreign thing held awkwardly as a conch
to a child’s ear, whispering. The pulse of it gone,
gone, but in my hand the shell that breathes.
I put it down among so many things
that I collect and rearrange from time to time,
to call from dust the things I keep.