The poet speaks about dreaming
of dead mothers and I
wide-eyed feel exposed
in the solemn quiet room.
That night I dream
of you, as if the poet’s words
are an incantation.
We are leaving
a library together,
you wearing a pale
linen suit and lipstick,
and I walk ahead
because it has been so long
since I had to
wait for you.
And looking back,
you had fallen and lost
your shoes. I come
and clean off your
muddied pant leg
with my hand
and lift you, your
body the battered
softness of mother.
I remember now
what it is to be
a daughter, to have
someone to wait for,
crossing whole
cement plains of a
city’s inconsequence
Together.
You ask questions
that are not malicious
but soothing, exploratory-
a reminder that there is
someone that does not
look to damage your
pride but build it like
a kingdom
kept by all women.
Our stone legacy.
You tell me
you would like to see
Finland before
you die. I know you
are dead because this is
my dream but I start
booking night flights
to the deepest snows,
to the kind of country
I imagine Finland to be.
I consider the toughness
of boarding trains
when your leg is so swollen
and heavy. I consider
your hydration, your
bowel movements.
My plans disintegrate
into sickness-
your stomach hardened,
a mass of coiled tree roots.
In the morning,
I lay in bed with thin
lines of daylight coming
through the blinds,
falling across
my belly, greening my eyes.
I hold onto you
for a few more minutes
and try and memorize
your outline, I try and
build a body out of sun dust.
I walk to the library
and drink coffee in the café.
As I sharpen a pencil, I watch
the curl of the shavings.
I feel treasured, suddenly
I feel full of meaning,
remembering what it’s like
to be a daughter.
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