Our mothers' tears pool under the very
bridges. In every pot, their griefs melt
clean with marrow bones. They want to make
us strong, and so, feed fronds of torment
to the fire, drop sacs of bile and muscled
strips into the soup. Did you find a clutch
of red roses bleeding on the snow, crickets
interrogating piles of stuffed animals? Such
are the times we live in. Not atria or cool,
vaulted ceilings, no warm glow in windows
but vigils lit by candle-flame. Oak, sycamore
and pine line the avenues. Willow-braid
and damask magnolia, pale fronds of grass along
the shore. O moon floating detached above the broken
skyline, will you not promise even one green leaf?
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
