by Paulette Guerin

We left the upright, one side propped  with  As I Lay Dying , decaled roses peeling,  the black varnish buckled after years  of playing  Sonata No. 8 in C Minor.  A train rolled by,  the strings humming in its wake.    We packed the row of photographs  above the missing ivory. I picked up  Mother's cricket cage, the only thing  for which she'd ever paid full price.    Yellow leaves shimmied to the ground. A new moon  kept the sky dark, the stars too weak.  I almost left the key in the birdfeeder tray.

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Paulette Guerin is a graduate of the MFA program at the University of Florida. She lives in Arkansas and teaches literature and writing at Harding University. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Best New Poets 2018, ep;phany, Concho River Review, Twyckenham Notes, 2 River View, and others. She also has a chapbook, Polishing Silver. Her blog is www.pauletteguerinbane.wordpress.com.