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)