The teens are stuck with I
inscribed on their tongues.
They believe they woke
as queens and kings.
Sometimes they assume
mother means servant
and father equals groundskeeper
and worker bee.
But then someone says No
and steals chunks from the heart.
At night they become adults,
drunk and lost, debt in their fists.
They wander, wondering why
the castle vanished with the moon.
The barista writes Mourne on my coffee cup.
This day invites grieving even though
recently that old coffin slammed shut.
I believe in signs—messages from strangers,
that expected equation of three deaths in a queue.
Once, a friend’s daughter wandered
room to room in a dream. A nest
of mothers nurtured the deceased teen.
I passed the image along to the grief-festering woman.
She hugged me, said others had sent similar scenes.
Swallowing caffeine, I sink in the seat
replete with ghosts. The entire ride home
my fingers try to erase Mourne from my drink.
Maureen Sherbondy's forthcoming book is The Body Remembers. Her work has appeared in New York Quarterly, Southern Humanities Review, Calyx, and other journals. She lives in Durham, NC. www.maureensherbondy.com