Karin Gottshall
The river has its own concerns. It loves
the human form the way fury
loves a stone. In the shed, I stacked
the objects of my mother’s desire
in labeled boxes. The juddering water,
the urn. After I’d done her final taxes
I felt it: she was burned to ash. Fury
loves a stone the way a house is haunted,
the way a house can love you, just
walking through. A chipped bowl,
a broken tooth. Her shoes kicked off
at the bottom of the stairs.
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