Motherless
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If I try eyes-shut hard;
recall the misty likeness of a stretcher and air mask, a trailer lined with ice-fangs in Napanoch, a red ball I worshipped at three years old. How your legacy sits in two boxes. Poor math, crayoned stick-people, tidy poems you wrote in the 80’s That are all formatted like this. Pour upon the wording, to have known you. I scrounge your experiences to exonerate my own. The exactness of your malady, father’s a How-To guide on being in one’s cups. You get dry in centers and rooms, found something God-like, pressed petals between pages, all piecemealed at my fingertips. I’m faint praise as a pushing thirty dry spell. Oh how our quenching throats beg, didn’t and don’t they? Pour upon the wording, to know how. Yet, I’ll remain séance-less. I’ve found something myself. How to speak. |