It was only a dream I tell myself—

a soft glow breaking through a slivered

light beneath the pulled curtain’s hem.

​

My mother again, her ghost interrupting

what should be sleep. This time

she’s not in the dream. This time

​

someone is going through her things,

making piles of giveaways—

maybe the women in the Greek church

​

will come and collect them,

send her dresses to the poor. Maybe

the neighbors will want her Chanel suit,

​

her Gucci handbag. I’ve seen them

watching us from across the street,

all the drama the dying make. Nurses,

​

and paramedics, the weekly ambulance

rides following rounds of accidents,

my mother walking into mirrors

​

unable to focus, unable to even see

her own reflection. This is the aftermath

of death, the details left behind, piles

​

of clothes like dead bodies waiting to be

buried, and I don’t want to leave them

I want to bring them home with me,

​

carry them through the darkness, my arms

so full I can’t see a path in front

I want to breathe a Sunday prayer

​

into the room, into my dream as if

a tiny bit of life could be restored,

one more minute before an inevitable

​

ending. If I wear the chiffon maybe

I’ll hear her laugh again, if I wear the silk

maybe there will be petals of daisies

 

crushed in forgotten pockets, if I wear

the dress maybe I can run away

from the impending storm, experience

​

the soft lining rubbing across my heart,

the scent of her perfume wafting in air,

but they have all vanished now, like old

​

bones burned in a fire, and I’m awake,

with nothing left but the illusiveness

of the dream like the remnants

​

of fading stars, just beyond my window.