The Open Door
One knee weeps blood. His mother hasn’t mended it.
Snuffling in a corner through snot-greased fingers,
he watches her drift and blur on waves of smoke
rafting on their giant gym-ball, a blue-moon yogi.
Outside wide-washed dark waits, hides the stars
as midnight and its chimes hover. Inside,
conscious of the storm, he notes the curtains shimmy,
her face empty when Sunday strikes into Monday.
Uncurling, he dumps his last small lump of hope,
limps to their stone-square yard, jaw angled,
though he doesn’t know it, in his father’s way.
Copycat oaths pour round blocked tears.
Bubble-poised, out of time, her smile dies,
blind eyes never blink, breathing doesn’t change.
She hardly hears his pain, sworn to the night and
delivered gift-wrapped through the open door.
Page(s) 85
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