Leveler Poetry Journal
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Moon violets rush spring. Then bloom the bulbs,

the cherry cutlets


My son stands in the woods and I crouch

just until I cannot see him: blond hair, yellow raincoat,

six bottom teeth


Every gingko leaf drops the same time

to my feet


My mother lost her son in these trees.  He didn’t use

the house key in his pocket because he was not alive


She washed her black hair and disappeared to dry

hyacinth and some hostas in the yard


I had to be careful of what she saw, especially at night


I took her a white blanket the size of the yard,

told her her Will was in heaven


even though he was the blanket she would wrap herself in.  He was the house

in the ground, and I was her grief I could not see.  My son was mine

Julia Anna Morrison