by Alex Raz
I laid out her blankets
this time counting
overhead stars.
I recall the stories she remembered
strange, we only knew her swollen ankles
& blonde-white hair.
This morning, I collected kindling from our summer pile.
At once, we burn the forest to make room for new trees
and new piles
but then, silence parses a summer spark.
We share to remember, and it was a disservice to say 
she didn’t know what she’d forgotten.
Here comes the moon grazing the nightsky.
Here comes the moon
and my father and I used to watch shooting stars
on a blanket damp on the wet grass like this.
I would always shout and point, from behind the clouds, here it is!
the moonlight, the moonlight.
I remember her tears were dry on her satin blouse
our mother watched her mother cry
it wouldn’t help to watch her boys cry too.
Yet she knew we were crying when I grasped her hand
baring a photo of when she was young 
with freckles like honeysuckle.
For my mother, Paula.