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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