Gracefully
the first time she falls, you are there to catch her
the second time, plants and tender keepsakes break
the fall; the third,
you notice her dissolving
between island and oven falling, tears,
having fallen.
haunting isn’t about the linger
coming around any time it wants;
haunting is about lying. “Everything’s fine,”
she says in her not-yoga pose
haunting is
imbalance—just one stair at a time, bruises
all the way down
you will put her in a home,
a ghost feeding off
her pension and your 401k.
you will call less, come
less, talk less, think less about the shade that dwells,
sweet oracle, in the space between
slip
fall
you would rather die: rather be
forgotten, rather open the door to space,
get sucked out at once the youth gone
all at once not this slow
descent
Maria S. Picone (she/her) has an MFA from Goddard College. She loves cats, noodles, and oil painting. Her poetry and translations appear in Mineral Lit Mag, Red Alder Review, the Able Muse, and Vox Viola. Her Twitter is @mspicone, and her website is mariaspicone.com.