Dec 2, 2008

Mommy

Written by Megan Collins

Read by Jennifer Jabaily

I dreamt that a plane crash burned your body,
that the ocean opened its mouth to swallow
your ashes, and only your jewelry survived —

the blue star with a diamond core; earrings
to match. Nightgown ballooning around me,
I ran to your room, begged for a space in your bed.

Some nights, when you touched my temples,
your fingers smelled like gardens. In your lullabies,
the roofs on the houses were always thatched.

Wearing your necklace and old bridesmaid dresses,
I stuffed tissues into the backs of your shoes, mixed
potions in the bathroom and whispered to the mirror.

You left for parties, Aruba, the public library,
and I saw bridges collapsing, saw men in dark clothes
flick their tongues, then coil their hands around your neck.

You had promised me the stars, the ones set against
blackness, and the ones against your skin. When I die,
you said. You said they’d be mine when you died.

In dreams, we wove baskets out of sunflowers; my back
became a bridge. I clasped your fingers to my face
at night, and dreamt myself a pilot pierced with stars.

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