THIS JANUARY
for k.m.

A single page of an unfinished
letter and a cup of
chamomile tea are on a desk.

My mother’s funeral is forty-six
days after she left our apartment.

“I never thought she would die this January,”
my sister said. She is nine
years old. My mother will miss her puberty.

I recollect my mother’s lost
breasts and her sleek long hair on the pillow.

“I want to live,” her voice didn’t
go through the pay phone. Only her
radio kept speaking;

One Egyptian girl was killed in her mother’s arms yesterday…

The blood was purple
and luminous like a galaxy in darkened
space. Broken stars
bleed on the concrete road. The spots

slowly absorb the whole
universe leaving behind the cold
scent of chamomile.