Hole

To drain our
mother’s hematoma,

they drill into her
head. Not blood,

she says, a pinkish
liquid—lymph, pus?—

pools in the space
between her brain

& skull. Our father’s
dead, a good rid-

dance. Her depth
perception’s off.

She falls & falls.  
We call it grief.

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Hilary Sideris grew up in Indiana. She lives in Brooklyn and works for The City University of New York. Her poems have recently been published in Gravel, Main Street Rag, The Lake, and Salamander. Her collection Un Amore Veloce is just out from Kelsay Books. “Hole” will appear in The Silent b, forthcoming from Dos Madres Press.