Deadass
Michelle said, repeating
herself, you can’t
repeat this
as if words won’t exist
for unknown
unknowns.
And though soothing
a taxonomy only
obfuscates the truth
days keep calm, rain
wanders in, and the courtyard
is speechless.
Your mom thinks,
let’s get it – this
one thing – straight.
It’s the loose, soft stuff
that connects
that hurts.
And like a wall, we’ll
believe anything.
I try to remember
my refrain, my fear,
better than hers.
What won’t hold water?
A leaky ceiling, a tiny
baby. Close the door.
Take a seat.
Hooty hoo.
Andrew Weatherhead |