By Angie Yingst

So, do you know, you know, about me now?

I am a woman whose daughter has died.
           I imagined a thousand different lives she could have lived.
           I imagined myself an old mother of two strong, beautiful women.
           I imagined our house happy.
           I imagined her smiling.
           I imagined her.

I am a woman whose daughter has died.
           I listen to the same depressing song over and over again.
           I paint maudlin pictures.
           I take long sobbing baths of water so hot I walk out red.
           I find comfort in wallowing.
           I wallow.

I am a woman whose daughter has died.
           I don't want to talk about the weather with you.
           I don't want to feel beautiful.
           I don't want to flirt.
           I don't want to smile to make you more comfortable.
           I don't want to comfort you.

I am a woman whose daughter has died.
           She never kissed an anxious boy in an orchard.
           She never kissed me.
           She never loved.
           She never breathed.
           She never.

I am a woman whose daughter has died.
I am a woman who had a daughter.
I am a woman now.
I am.

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