Last night the memory of her mother walked out into the parking lot of the Long Rail Tavern at precisely five minutes to twelve. Where her tears fell, tiny puffs of dust rose. X-ray her now you will see her mother filing her nails. Her heart flickers off and on, random as a cat’s paw on a pull chain, and neon. She will not fall to pieces here. Though at least if she did, she could now put herself together again. She remembers a superhero made of boulders. He could assemble and reassemble. She could get bigger, she thinks. There might be room for two. In her mind a lilac begins to leaf.
Sina Queyras has work forthcoming in Poetry and The Malahat Review.
