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.