every god is weeping now. mother wakes
up open-mouthed, hair fanned

across our worn beige carpet. on our roof rain loosens
like heavy breaths, difficult breaths, the sound
a body makes when it has forgotten
how to listen. mother murmurs her dead mother’s name, mistakes

heaven’s mourning for her own. i am hunched over
her, silent. i curl my pinkie around hers.

our hands: childlike, trembling like twins
in a womb. our old arguments—the yelling,

the creaky apartment door slamming—
all for this: to understand

how we are two women holding the same grief.
i remove my hoodie to wrap it around

her, the cuffs still wet, salted with my own
small sadness. later, i bring out

a mason jar from the kitchen—lemon
slices straining to hang

onto the lip of the cup, puckering in the water.
mother presses her ear to the cold

glass, as if every hurt must make a sound.