Even children can be seen as worldly things,
not as souls with broken
mirrors. It then takes the mother,
a foundling in sacred grass,
a foundling in sacred grass,
to root in her infinance the many
poor decisions, the many
poor decisions, the many
breadcrumbs swatting the floors
of a baby’s mouth, the drool
of a baby’s mouth, the drool
cascading niagras down a chin
that looks like hers,
that looks like hers,
sharpened rock from too
much death before thirty,
much death before thirty,
to find the screw in the grass
when
when
the children fester & fall.
Her nails are padded
Her nails are padded
from cliffs, from money, & with death
& that is okay because they root
& that is okay because they root
even as she moves with a new birth,
a new fire,
a new fire,
even as the boy says seal in French
& it sounds a little too much like
& it sounds a little too much like
fuck, she fingers the soles
of her children’s feet
of her children’s feet
just enough so they feel caught.
She will do this every time,
She will do this every time,
even as the words sung into their ears
about cliffs & money & death
about cliffs & money & death
feel medicinal yet heavy, & screw
in the sole of every virgin foot.
in the sole of every virgin foot.
Read on . . .