Memorials
I roam through cactus and moonlight,
never knowing how old marrow can be fleshed
from pores sewn in blank lines of endings ~
and here I am among rows of a year’s diary;
these hands sanded by memorials
of famine and feast ; sometimes wrinkled
by the laundry of evenings’ regret.
At times, like a torn gypsy rose burned in coal,
I remember the faces of my family smelling
of tar and mint , knitting arms flamed
though midnight’s love, then doused
by autumn’s muddy rain ~ gone just like that.
12/28/2015
For the Contest Deep and Dark
Sponsor; Broken Wings
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