against the wall above me,
beats and beats to and fro.
Incessantly, the spirit of my dead
mother vibrates the air
against the dark. She won't ascend
above the ceiling. Tries instead
to reclaim center stage,
relive with me her lifetime
her tiny waist, her long legs. Nightly,
in useless form she returns.
Tonight she will tear her wings to shreds,
flutter to the floor, a clot
of dead leaves after winter.
Tomorrow she might be the possum
that stalks the fence
back and forth to night vision
desperate to ask me if this shadow
highlights her green eyes,
if this dress slims her.