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.
The pages hurt
too much to touch.
I can barely remember
the sound of you
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.
I tried it Your way
and somehow still ended
up face down
on a ground of cold foliage
corpses rotting underneath my teeth.
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
all for you. I don’t need to see them to believe
that maybe we have squandered
the miracle of divine graves.