I sold her bed for a song.
A song of yearning like an orphan’s.
Or the one knives carve into bread.
But the un-broken bread
For the song that rivers
sing to the ferryman’s oars.
that dread in it.
For a threadbare tune: garroted,
beggar’s, a foghorn’s call.
For the kind of song only morning
can slap on love-stained sheets —
that’s what I sold my mother’s
The one she died in.
for a song.
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