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.

Read more from Issue No. 13 or share on Twitter.