Stitches

And at last the weary thread of patience
     slips through the elusive silver eye,
a line of blanket stitches through
     the sheets I pull over our dust-cloud mouths.

And I am learning to reconcile with
     the tilted magnitude of memory:
A grand arc of aurulent miracle
     In my reverent, covetous hands,

Or perhaps to you,
     An ephemeral dart and glance of fate
             As you make your way towards the hall.

Leave the light on when you go, love.
     The thimble is heavy on my fingertips,
I am forgetting how to weave us in
     To the tapestry of sorest hope.

traces

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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.

Absence

I tried it Your way
and somehow still ended
up face down
on a ground of cold foliage
corpses rotting underneath my teeth.

You watched
deific.
circumspect.
hummed quietly as he stole
my You-given virtue
in the silence between four dismal walls.

Don’t come to me and show me the wounds in your side
and say,
all for you. I don’t need to see them to believe
that maybe we have squandered
the miracle of divine graves.