ON SEEING MOM DEAD FOR THE FIRST TIME​

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The room had no windows
and I didn’t want to be
touched. Grandma clawed
my shoulder, insistent, you can’t stay
here, you have to see her,
don’t you want to see her?
I followed, caught
in her grief. The curtain opened
like a pack of skittles, the noise
scattered in the small room.
Touch her, go on! Touch
your mother. Another voice:
I have to warn you, she won’t
look like she’s sleeping.
I flinched at the stiffness
of her arm, the stillness
of her chest so unlike
the last time I saw her.
Don’t hug me, she’d said, I think
I’m coming down with something
red-faced and smiling
in her flaking pleather armchair,
not stiff and gray, gums gone
dark, breathing
tube in her mouth.
I keep having this dream:
my teeth turn
to tombstones and fall
into a hole in the ground.
I can’t speak, my mouth full
of grave, dirt full of teeth
the only bones
we can bear to lose.