Mother

Sometimes, she was a phantom,
a ghost of perfume and powder,
moving silently through empty walls,
drowsing in the corners of drunken hallways
a collar of pearls at her neck,
bands of gold ringing her wrists.

Sometimes, she would scream,
and each finger, a bullet fleshed,
compelled by furious trajectory,
clutched at my braids, then broke themselves against my cheek;
each calloused hand recoiling
shamelessly, to strike again

or still.

Atlantic, pt. 2

In the morning, no gulls rise.
Only the soft white wing of water cresting
lifts up from the horizon.
In the morning, there is only
this slow wake, a newborn stillness that grows
pregnant and full with midday heat.
Where are the birds? Once their cry
broke the tidewater chorus. Once they cast
coal-black shadows on the shore.

One Night.

Epic of soft failures,
Afterschool tragedies. No goodnight kiss.
Unsettled departures. Turn the light off when you leave.
Circle of gold, where does it go
When it's taken off with the sounds
of engines stirring, the steely incandescence of headlights?
Gone. In the end, gone
Early morning cheap. Empty bed again.