Mother,
Your love, it sways
Father,
A time when love was kind of insect-like mimicry.
one.
one.
two.
one.
Sister,
You point to a time, like a fly on the wall, saying this is when a light went out in me. I look in that direction and see hot absence, a pink flare.
one.
A barely sagged face, the bud of fatigue.
And also beauty, clean and silver skinned, a cut.
two.
She can admit with ease that she is a believer in signs, in the quantifiable impossibility of coincidence.
She can admit with ease, her delight that coincidence has favored their reunion.
They are filled with brevity, drunk with the thrill of impermanence
A thin horse painted white and shaking
on long stretches of pulled rock
I imagine fingering its ghost leg
wanting to feel its time
