The Death of Jane
The mother of my mother lives
In a small space by the seaside
Or would have had the breeze
Not whipped her through the windows.
She’s the farthest person I know
From where I’m standing,
At the horizon, stringing stars.
Burning down to the embers
One remembers moments twinkling
Freckles on the nose of the night sky.
Waiting for a sign, knowing we would miss it.
Hand over hand, ashes in the sea.
The mother of my mother calls nightly,
Leaving no words of comfort,
Only the dry dream of dust draped
Across the curtain, stringing stars.