Zoe Canner

mourner's dance


in the public toilet
 
at the library today


after the blonde old


russian woman ambled
 
out of a stall, i went


right in. i didn't realize
 
i knew the smell of my


grandma frida's pee
 
but apparently i do.


warm hay &oats.


grief is a shifty shady
 
mountain, hard to claim.


pride, a razor thin pale
 
strip of paper, flapping


in the wind.


i haven't gotten on that
 
plane to paris and not


looked back.


i hear my mother's voice
 
and i am sure that all i


need on this earth is to


tell her she is wanted.
 
she is accepted.


she is loved.


the crushing impact of
 
bad teachers &the soft


gentle brush of lips to
 
knee, spools my ache


into choreography.



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