by Andrea Potos

      Death is what mothers do alone,
      daughters cannot come along,
      or pause the creaking boat.
—Sally Nacker

A small current was all it took
to usher you out, onto that strip of silver light
laid down for you,
the relief of your smile meeting the stars.

I knew I had no say in any of it;
I stand here now, gathering shells
whenever they appear. I hold them up
to my ears. On certain days
inside their silence I can hear
the echoes of your voice.

(previously published in Mothershell)  

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