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.