Paperwhites

by Dia Roth

My mother leaves behind paperwhites, gifts
for my dog in her handwriting,
books of poetry, no note. I mine them

for semi-precious stones,
admissions of remorse, scabs picked
off and left behind, but come up

dry. Douse any glimmer, wick drips
water from kerosene, ‘til it’s all
shriveled up. She-loves-me,

she-loves-me-not, each petal
read clandestine, like pages of her journal,
dated 1976. Blurred matte of

reflection, wish I won’t
see myself in her early poems.
Find nothing, except:

I’m trying to write, but
friends keep coming over
and offering joints.

A superficial connection, at best.
My first December alone, she
gave me paperwhites—bulbs

immersed to their hips in water
and marbles—with a jug of
water and gin. Said the mixture

would stunt growth long enough
for the stocks to support
the flowers once they bloomed.

I tended the bulbs like you said. My chin
above water, breathing in every promise. Submerged
too deep, they rotted soft before the New Year.