My mother’s grief is an acre wide,
and hard as the concrete with our hands
pressed in like hollow stars.
Glass-eyed, tremulous veins spidered
across her windows,
two stories strong
four years empty.
Brass knobs that don’t turn and doors
boarded up, her mouth nailed shut
my mother’s grief is
(s i l e n t)
but you can see it from the street.
Burgundy and grand,
queen of the town.
Wide driveway river winding down
an overgrown husk
and children sitting on her staircase.