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.
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