Sometimes we must banish things to make space for others says mother
See, now I sweep the windowsill for dust to make room for sunshine
Older, thirty years after, mother in a distant land away
Dishes sopping wet, clean, honeysuckle-scented and artificial
I swallowed the sun and it tumbled down to my stomach
Shining and nectarine sweet, it tasted freshly pink to the tongue
Daughter says back tomorrow comes dust again
as if this exhibits mother’s faulty, unconvincing logic and mother only nods, repeats:
and then tomorrow comes dust again