Poetry By M.R. Mandell

        Kyle Pearce CC



Mom’s Bedside Table                                                                            

                              for C

You did this was written 
over and over across the pages 
of her last diary. Bowed 
with red ribbon, like a holiday 
gift from Saks, alongside a row 
of empty bottles, lined up 
alphabetically, so paramedics 
knew exactly what she took, 
knew exactly why they 
arrived too late.

Dying was her life.
She bawled at the sight 
of a limping daisy, the brush 
of a falling house fly. Her lashes 
shimmered at the thought of a 
gunned-down starlet. She lost days 
swaddled in empty beer cans 
over news of a fallen rock star. 

Dad said she had a hyena’s sense
of humor. Feigning execution 
to drive away the enemy. Howling 
and chattering before she attacked.
Threatening her own life, to keep
her pups in line. 

This time was more than a lie,
no ultimatum to make us behave. 
No theatre to warn us she’s still alive. 
She set the stage for more than a show.

We found her gazing up at god, 
tucked in like a military cadet, 
hands butterflied, as if she was
waving goodbye. Eyes empty. 
The only time we ever 
saw them       clear of a tear.

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M.R. Mandell (she/her) is a writer living in Los Angeles. A transplant from Katy, Texas, she now lives by the beach with her muse, a Golden Retriever named Chester Blue (at her feet), and her longtime partner (by her side). You can find her work in Chill Subs, Boats Against the Current, The Final Girl Bulletin Board, Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, The Bloom, Jake, and others.  

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