From the Tips of Their Fingers
remembered for when the moonlight waned;
the stars grew dizzy and lost their bright;
the wolf leaned on his paws, silently watching;
the darkness grew within, bloodletting.
his mother would see his pale shell;
solitary figure in early morning grief.
pitch, like a spotlight in my bedroom;
specification of dark.
the call won’t come
until after his father wakes up; perhaps,
God granted a few more minutes peace
before the sun melted like wax.
the wax mask would become ashen.
ashes fly like a son from the tips of their fingers.
side by side, together on the mountainside.
ashes leapt into the air, four years past;
halloween, a scare, an early morning reality.
his guitar silenced; his voice on repeat.
teardrops splash off vinyl,
round and round;
seasons come and go…
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