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
her dress,
an overgrown husk
of memory
and children sitting on her staircase.


4 thoughts on “traces

    • Oh goodness, thank you so much. I’m sorry it diminished your happiness, but I think what might have happened is that you bequeathed it to me in this comment. If I may, here’s another joke, and I hope it brings some laughter back:
      -How do you catch a special rabbit?
      -You-nique up on it!

      Liked by 1 person

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