ADRIANA BELTRANO

Buck 

The shedding of this life
will be violent. The velvet
of a three-point buck
scraped against bark

gathering like white lace
in a pink and blue wedding box,
collected, splayed, pinned.
After a death, it’s shipped back

with crucifixes and old pearls,
creaking chests and a plush lining.

My mother sags like sacks
of knickknacks and memorabilia,
falls into herself. Her pants,
elastic bands and drawstrings, 

slip down. Her chin
falls into her own chest 
just to hold itself up. Like a finger
pressing on moldy velvet, 

this death will be silent.
Once, she stood in a white gown
with a lace train, with buttons up
to the back of her neck. 

She was tall. Held herself 
like the buck with all the points,
knowing it was special, knowing
it had outlasted something.