Untitled 30

I portray the mother of dust: the rattle in our empty nest, echoing, echoing like the bray that escapes the moon at noon, the shrieks from soft white rooms. These unhatched eggs cry, crawling to my windows, peeping in, trying to frost each dirty sheet of glass with their shallow dirty breaths. Is there humanity in this reflection? I am a factory assembling cadavers: cold glassy eyed dolls all wearing the same vacant faces: blurred, blurred, and terrible. Their little fingers stain the walls like the pages of blank novels. I try to hold them. They go. They let me go, for now. I don't fear the darkness anymore, but it is their tongues of silence that leave me unhinged. Remembering is to ache like a shadow. Mother mothering dirt, a stranger to health. My cramping hands pray and hope my past can eat itself.