September 2023

Back to Issue 14


By Marie-Andrée Auclair

A rectangle of white

the bed; a square of blue

the window.

The blue too cheerful

the bed too quiet

my mother, too small in it.


I can’t hold her hand

that clings to the chrome railing

meant to keep her safe

keeping us 



I sit on a straight chair

bring the flute to my mouth

breathe a melody she knows 

and hums.


She hold me in her gaze, I can’t blink.

The next day I tell her my name.

She is gone-not-gone

it won’t be long.