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Spring 2015

Agora Spring 2015 Zordani

It Doesn't End Here


Nothing says thirst like hot air blowing across a dirt field
absent of what was there.

My mother leaves out what she won’t let herself remember, three
abortions, a daughter taking pills to die, a sister who set herself
on fire,

the husband who beat the dog almost
to death.

Her skin gathers in clumps at her elbows, under her eyes,
as she tells stories she wants to believe.  It doesn’t matter if I listen

as I watch the sun twitch shadows
                       across the kitchen floor. Only the words as they sound their way

from the back of her mouth are what I want to remember. Only the voice
                       I will want to hear again and again one day.

Her memories, though, are dreams she made up, and if I listen
they will parch my throat with their never becoming.

Originally published in Mom Egg Review (Vol. 13. 2015)