When a mother kills the light in her son’s eyes
god moves stone like water for miles
and ash rains for months.
I collect mudstone from a bleached river bed
exposed by floods that come
most winters. I build
a cairn on my window sill. If I leave
the cairn sit memories leach
away so sometimes
when I’m strong I take a piece and taste the grit.
The last time I admonished Jack
I can’t recall my words
but under a glaring sun, I see his flushed cheeks,
his sweat-matted hair brushed back. I see
tears as he watches me
the cairn sit memories leach
away so sometimes
when I’m strong I take a piece and taste the grit.
The last time I admonished Jack
I can’t recall my words
but under a glaring sun, I see his flushed cheeks,
his sweat-matted hair brushed back. I see
tears as he watches me
instruct him to work harder with the same eyes
that challenged his mother. It’s not like
I’m going to die!
he vowed two nights before she drugged him and
drowned him with a pillow.
The memory is unlithified--I return it
gently--undo only the slightest
flake with my breath.
that challenged his mother. It’s not like
I’m going to die!
he vowed two nights before she drugged him and
drowned him with a pillow.
The memory is unlithified--I return it
gently--undo only the slightest
flake with my breath.
(previous draft: click here.)
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