My mother died at fifty of
a beautiful word, leukemia.
Nine years earlier
in autumn, she gave birth to me
when the maples in the park
began to turn as they do now.
I don’t know how to walk here,
in the shifting space no meanings fill.
I have now outlived her.
I enter this foreshortened field,
wildly unmothered still.
Copyright © 2017 Maggie Anderson
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.