Sunday

the betrayal of 

old injuries throbbing as 

new are… mending?

morphing? pain randomly

fucking about on whim

family

I communicate on his terms; call 

on before after days of celebration; visit

mostly in the silence of being present; listen  

to occasional stories of sudden remembrance 

of surface dwellings never deep rarely about the

familial unit that was the first in which 

we are the last; he is the last to hold my story of

a youth soon only known to me, a youth spent

grasping to manifest a thing I never knew

a thing others called family 

grandmother

half-light of a red glow 

through shears drawn loose;

morning chilled by the slow

creek of a lazy fan lulling

from above; 

                    the glow was 

burnt orange in a different time a 

different place also on a lake but 

drawn tight, the sheers guarded  

flesh thinly creping, shaded 

eyes grown pale; delicate 

she lived middling to late

in the half-light away from the sun

fit to bust

holding space holding it

together, heart fit to bust body

constrained by a ‘have to’ and

miles of water miles of land;

static as the mind spins the

dial searching scanning for

that one good song on a

a county road while driving 

no title feels right

I

I looked for one

and found another 

the shelter had so many 

II

struggling with 

                        home

the concept the feeling 

I was without while in motion

of doing and seeing, settling in

III

shutting windows locking doors 

I left my heart in Portugal 

even days away are too long 

little Bird

our rituals

timely tell us when 

to wake when to sleep when 

to eat when to walk when

to love when

not followed

she knows and demands

her little heart keeping time