As if weightlessness were aspirational―
what nonsense―
your death,
a stone
I can only hope to shoulder forever. Imagine
it gets better―
what nothing
am I left with
then? Even despair carries a particular
charge: that fantastic
last whiff of lavender
detergent
imprinted on the collar of a holiday sweater―
mama,
the mourners are assembling. March me
up that hill …
Copyright © 2026 by Shara Lessley. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 28, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
