you the mother I figured you to be
bend your font at me
when you write for home.
I don’t need you, I braid the crowd
to unearth you. I stitch the line full
of myself. you shrug in
and out of my address. were you
ridden here by the weather?
leave the trees in the yard. leave
the heavy lifting. take your feet
off the stage, that braille
you punch the ground with.
I left my physics written
on the beaches, a war story.
in our trauma, a sorcery
that shuts the world out.
sacking the oral tradition, my hand
was built to unwrap, detach,
and apply to cheek. within
thirty minutes, magic. within
one long day, the jaw should insist
on remembering. if necessary,
break cleanly to draw marrow out.
that nephew, always climbing:
let’s save his life. turn out
those brooms, that idiomatic arsenal,
give me a word I can pretend
was yours once. I can offer
the heavy cloud, I have
thought balloons immune
to puncture: if any of that helps.