not the charcoal fruit bowl
1
i close my eyes.
i see the unscrewed caps.
their empty counterparts.
three foaming mouths of thirst.
i close my eyes.
i see the single magnolia.
its lonely center, ripe with motherhood.
each unbirthed bouquet a
muted promise of company. 3
i close my eyes.
i see his wrinkled feet.
mismatched shoes on
the leather-skinned hands of
lions. combing the gold
from their manes. such raw splendors,
shy of a decade. in fear of
age, a mockingbird melody
we know ends
in silence.