by Melina Papadopoulos Daniel Lerman I have written poems, lined them with flowers, run the dirt of a dirge through my fingers. I’ve spoken of what turns to dust and then gathers it unseen. I’ve looked to the skies the dead leave behind: One wears the moon like a musky perfume, Another hides stars behind its storm. In this room, lilies parse sunlight from a white vase. I search for the bluest one, bright and reverent, one that burns into the darkness. In this room, my mother