When she died, I left New York for this valley
            where the Appalachian hills hold the breath

of the dead between them and lift from each
            morning a fresh bandage of mist. I watched

the lowering, her coffin rocking into the ground
            like a cradle swaddled in gravel and dirt, 

the early fog sinking in so dense I could tear it
            into pieces like bread. I felt the gaze of the other

mourners follow me, their eyes scattering birds.
            A fine ice dusted silently, silvering my hair

into my mother’s. Cupping my hands, I gathered cold
            globes of breath and as I watched it whisper away

I wanted to know if the dead hold their mouths in their
            hands like this to know what is left of them.

When I left the valley, I took it with me, the train
            slicing the fields leaving its stiff suture.