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Flower dust, reckoning

Stephanie Powell 
Mum fixes lilies in the vase. 
Like grown-up children they
spread their bloom beneath her 
hands but don’t require tendering.
From 16,000 kilometres away, 
I am standing at the cliff 
of her shoulder. 
I am cutting stems 
from supermarket flowers. 
Stripping the bottom leaves. 
I have seen her taken by a migraine
struck out in a dark room. 
The hard light grinding
its heels into her eyes. 
I lie on my sofa, 
one hand behind my head, 
the sun bashing through windows
my mouth wide open 
when I forget to breathe 
through my nose. 
My hands are hers.
Veins like jellyfish sailing  
beneath the skin, signs of wear,
sunspots and old scars. 
I see her hands at the throat of a glass, 
I see them wiping pollen off the tabletop. 
I see decades, I see a reckoning
seeds flying interiors of time zones.