They ran away from us, children
on a winter day. They took torches, tied
the mother—the martyr, she corrected—
to timber and torched the thing.
Did they mistake her, mother, sleeper,
dreamer, as a sign from gods unknown? Did
her children taste soot and flame, mistake it
for the taste of divinity? Two watched
what their future could be; arms coiled,
smiling, almost, if they only remembered how.
I can still hear the slow jam jingle of the ice cream truck gliding along past our yellow house like it was riding on rails
Pick a star, any star & I’ll reach straight up and grab it for you put it right inside your hot little hand we had
for Alex — a golden shovel, after Andrea Gibson The sky is still keening and so am I. What is too many tears? I let
It will probably happen when I’m at work, and he recruits a nosy, but caring friend with an AI-powered search engine. They’ll hush behind a
Your gaze becomes a stare, forcing your views without saying a word. Your eyes tell me a story. One where I fall to the wayside.
