Updated: Jan 7
She signs love and joy,
that she “can’t read this here,”
and walks away.
The tulips that have drowned,
she holds on to the fragility of spring,
the unanswered questions that echo in the fall.
I cut my lip
and I can’t speak.
She mends me
with a warm cloth
and a honey cough drop.
“To be young,” she says. And laughs.
“You know I used to write poetry,” and guides me
to another room.
It is narrow and brown,
barren of pottery and light. “I can
It is Mary and the blessings of me,
cornered in scripture where nothing is clear.
I appear just another movement
for her to claim no longer
To dry her out of the sunken lily pads
“with love,” she turns. A cardinal pauses
to meet her stained glass
and to distort her breath.
“I cannot handle this,” she writes.