THE SHOCK of it.
A mother telling her son: “My son, I won’t let you go to California.”
A young man carries her baby all day long in slings telling him to grow.
Music is ringing into an empty silent room
: a woman lost to grief; and a boy unable to place her
and then her voice and him singing a hard melody, so darkly ironic.
A little singing voice sounds in the distance about a fist coming down hard
on her right breast which hurts beyond words —
: a shadow on the porch
a young woman
a single mother —
Damp gravel slush raining down on a wood tree, big as a house
covered with silk flowers.
A light touches its branches, fades:
Mama cries: “Can you make a fairy home out of this?”
“Yep,” I say —
“that’s what I do all day.”
burned bird: the bird must go
(She alone will turn my face to this flame)
bunch of very small black bodies: flocking, in a shadow
of magic, so small, they see their souls away across the ocean
within bird-wings is a full moon.
HUNTING BOY at the butcher
pink of his heels: she hands him
the armful of feathers
of a dead hawk’s nest,
“now,” she says,
“a nice plumy body and yellow bill.”
// :: 02.09.2022 :: \\