Tonight the moon is one working headlight. 

The houses shy away from the roads, 
                                             huddle together, afraid 
of crows perched on streetlamp crossbars, 
                                            the traffic lights revolting. 

I wake beside my mother, her eyes swollen shut. 

She wears white and flutters by like plaster dust 
                                                        too far above me, 
her gown draped over her forearms. 

She is a grapevine coiled around a post, a spider’s web spun
in the darkest corner, soggy leaves rotating wildly 
                                                        in a pebbled shallow creek

rushing swift. She reminds me of every clay-flung hour, every rutted 
washboard road. Death must be like this: a glass slipping from hand 

to floor, my veins becoming roots of sycamores, and her song, 

her song becoming ash, turning into paste in my mouth.

Bio: Jenna Bazzell