Death Certificate
Ansley Moon
394. There it was. His first night of pain. That waiting for something to subside.
292. When pain is buried in the body it resurfaces.
230. This is the night we made you. Ready for (everything) nothing.
215. Heavy breasts. I know you’re here.
206. He knows.
198. Diagnoses are weeds. Each time we settle a new one emerges.
175. When the doctor asks where it hurts, your father points to me. Where? Everywhere.
100. I begin to find things to sell while he sleeps, my silver bangles, a copper pot.
50. I record the reverberations of his snoring in my mind. I want to remember the sounds once he is
gone.
23. The doctors stopped calling, instead stopped by to take payments.
20. He looks skeletal, sunken clavicle and eye sockets I could bury my fist inside.
9. He knows.
4. A shrill whistle, his breath allows no one to sleep.
1. His impish mouth downturned, begs for water—a cool rag pressed.
0. I go for the neighbor. She slips her hand in mine. Guttural sounds sing from his stubborn mouth.
Are you sure he is dead?
-1 …
-2. …
-4. I practice “no” in the mirror. Ready for the questions.
-8. We placed your father in the pyre today. My seven-month belly meant I had to rearrange myself
to kiss his eyelids. We lit the fire and slid him to the river. Watched him burn from the banks.
Ansley Moon was born in India and has since lived on three different continents. She is the author of the poetry collection How to Bury the Dead (Black Coffee Press). Her poems have appeared in Adrienne, J Journal, PANK, Southern Women's Review and elsewhere. She holds a M.F.A from The New School and is the recipient of a Kundiman fellowship and a BinderCon scholarship. She lives in Brooklyn, New York and works as a teacher.