Honor Moore

She was not cold and I was

still a girl. Okay, I'll never

recover that. She was tall. She

had black hair, her skin tanned fast,

dark blue eyes. I can't remember

her teeth. She liked to wear bright

colors, used the word sweetie

ironically. I'll be seventy,

her dead forty-three years, wake

angry and weeping still. She comes

down the stairs wearing black

and white. She comes down the stairs

smiling and the room swerves.

I'm tiny in her arms, as if

flat against a steep mountain.

The sky is strong, pulls at me,

but she holds. Understand I don't

believe this will ever change.

Found In Volume , No. 01
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Honor Moore
About the Author

Honor Moore’s most recent book is The Bishop’s Daughter, a memoir, a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award and a Los Angeles Times Favorite Book of the Year and her most recent collection of poems, Red Shoes.  Her work has appeared in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, The American Scholar, Salmagundi, The New Republic, Freeman’s and many other journals and anthologies. She lives and writes in New York where she is on the graduate writing faculty of the New School.