sits on the moon at a tilt,
like the tarnished spoon
left behind a woodpile
after it was used to dig a hole
to hide your mother’s brooch,
that lies quieter now
than when it was stuck
to her breast, the skin
beneath her blouse, loose
and raw from sighing,
the purple of her veins
unable to make ends meet
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
love this poem
Post a Comment