The truth is I will never again see the mother
I know, the one always halfway through
four different books, or making the light
on the water perfect in her pastel landscapes.
Soft light lands and pops
on your clavicles
like soap bubbles.
The restoration crew comes and goes
like field medics
Her heart two-steps, now flesh, now metaphor,
while her mind—the brain when it blushes—
gently nets a halo: thought bubbles and unlit bulbs.
I liked the idea that I could make it go away
with words, but ultimately, they would find
nothing because I never wrote.
Instead, he finds the cardinal, drop of blood
flitting through the leaves, dancing where
the light moves a hand as it breaks here,
breaks there, casts shadow against ashen bark.
she knows where
the river winds itself around the cliffs,
where the snakes polish their lungs
in bile, where the darkness multiplies
in sleepless schools of fish
On the bottom
holds my face.
And a cloud in the shape of a sister. This womb
emptied of promise. That brief waking moment love
has no synonym.