Two countries ago, mother
spread like the horizon. Immutable.
She is now crayoned in sepia ink.
The borders have shrunk her.
Must not go back,
for she is thinner every time.
A sliver of feeling leaves me.
Her skin is heavy, full of lines assembled into a map
of wrongs and rights.
Her heart is a violin filled with water,
no longer echoing.
She must be looking at the bones of a memory
past the bedroom eaten by black threads.
She must be sliding her fingers
on the umber desk, like I used to.
I did not tell her the stars took me in.
I used to climb up there
when it got too loud.
If she were to see it too,
the cold forever, disguised in trembling light,
the cemetery of young thoughts,
her life would fall into mine and
we would fold the world into what
it was supposed to be.
Elena Croitoru has an MSt in Creative Writing from the University of Cambridge & her work has been selected for the Best New British & Irish Poets 2019. She has won/was shortlisted for various awards in the UK, Ireland & the US. She is on Twitter here: @elenacroitoru