JENNA BAZZELL All Is Wild, All Is Silent

HONORABLE MENTION, 2017 LAUX/MILLAR POETRY PRIZE

JENNA BAZZELL

All Is Wild, All Is Silent

… it takes forever to believe the dead are friendly. —Jorie Graham

My mother is dead you hear yourself tell anyone who asks, anyone who answers oh but never asks how, but when as though ignoring will make it disappear like your mother slurring, her hands you could sense confusion through, the kitchen painted over and another cigarette burning without end, another bedroom door gone white, a water-stained lampshade. She is dead. A copper roof oxidized to green. You quarter onions, slice potatoes. Every- time, you flinch before the gas range ignites. She’s dead you hear yourself repeat. You devein shrimp hovering over the sink. Through the window, pines border the yard swallowed by tall shadows. Her unwillingness buried beneath them. You move to watch them stand still, move the other way to see their needles shed. She’s dead. You say it to make it small, the way it never seems to come or last, until you say it My mother is dead until saying it is comfortable, like a belief. So, when you hear it, you stand still and wait.