Memento Mori
Nick Flynn

A virus threads its way through us, rides our blood
like a subway, erasing everything. But it's

alright, I don't want to remember floorplans or
thresholds anyway, the light
finding the airspace around my mother's door,

the black air filling her lungs

until all inside her
hangs darkly. I left the attic
unlatched, shimmied up the gutterpipe, I knew

I'd never wake her, no matter how hard I
knocked.

* * * * *

She opened herself like a time-lapsed rose. I thought
our bodies were mostly water

but there was so much blood. I rinsed the rags

in the sink & she whirlpooled
away, below my feet, filling sewers,

so much flowing from that moment, that
Atlantic.

* * * * *

All the payphones hang stuffed with quarters,
the map has been folded too many times.

* * * * *

I'm sick of God & his teaspoons. I don't want

to remember her
reaching up for a kiss, or the television

pouring its blue bodies into her bedroom.

I'd stare at the dust lit up by the sun,
it formed fallen pillars
connecting the windows to the floor & I knew

they were all that kept the walls
from collapse.