What does it take to clear a space where once slept a teen daughter. Her discarded tidbits still here. Mismatched pencils, erasers hardened. I hear the scratch of tree limbs she told as a girl woke her at night. I sit now in this room I’m claiming for study. She could come back and claim her green felt frog, book marks, her stolen designer sunglasses resting in hard cases. Her discarded eye shadow and stubs of sage. Silver pinkie rings she took off and bottles of tincture, Singer's Saving Grace. (She's only a seven hour drive away.) I’ve scraped the stick ‘um from the closet doors, emptied the small red rolling cart of Screaming Yellow Zonkers and licorice whips. A clean slate. A cleared place for mother writer A narrow stage A margin A rural wooden table to take and name.