Postcard for My Mother, Par Avion

— Dana Crum

I remember your failed
yard sale: stacks of Jet men
pawed and put down,

cubic-zirconia birthstones
collecting dust, landlines
dead in unplugged chargers,

church hats like heads on stakes.
But mostly I remember this:
as always, I could pay

so few of your bills,
yet you stood by me,
dying of cancer—

your skirt suits afloat,
lining the fence, ghost
after ghost of you.


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