#63

Silver morning. The dustrag displacing books and boxes. Call it, "moral relativism." Vietnam, Korea: a sliding word. Tea with honey, leftover sweets. Tiny glinting bowls collecting crumbs. Recall, as before, a traffic blockade: my mother, stalled, go meet her. Stutter out a dream. Parents, children, crimes. The scuttling authorship. Resent.

Clutch a red pillow, open. The afternoon swollen and present, full. Steve Reich on the stereo. Strings, someone said, mean breath, lungs, respite. I picture a girl through brush, parting the leaves to see what's there. That night when he saw you at the bar. Run after then, catch him with a turn, and say... Things inside of things. Melanie, the word melon. Blake, the word lake. See each consonant a spinning tale. And wait.

Carter calls. Art. He lifts my chin to see. What is dark there, tell him. A father walking through a door with jacket. Trace this with a deed, stay. An echo, Ryan, foolish, follows. Care for him, that's what's learned. Open-eyed collecter of heirlooms. Unpack what's been crated. Draw a hand close. And a light on, each night, for him. Who else will you be alone?