The dark is flayed by lights ,
and your shadow riddled by nails .
My motions are hollow as a dead bug
in a bottle . Your long and thirsty lip
is curling, your eye beginning
to
swell.
Mother , it is life that is mercurial,
rushing past me with your grief
on its face. And I have no prayer,
no incantation. I slide into the crack
between two chairs, with a child
.
. .
sqUIrmIng In my arms.
The water is your tears .
The barge is our family home.
The three little pigs are off
betting my life at the track.
The child is the child I was.
