A moth rattles the blind
My mind settles
Like a zoetrope sliding over faces,
Tonight my mother and father
Sit before me
Beautiful as an old photo
I’ve seen many times;
They’re standing before the ocean
Years of giving still ahead.
For a long time
I lay awake troubled
By thoughts of what came next,
Now each night I’m lost in memory,
Like a child broaching rooms
In a dark house.
The wind blows
And the trees move,
I’m driven down a hallway
By a voice I think is my mothers
But reveals itself as a television
Playing to an empty room.
No comments:
Post a Comment