on Friday nights, my mom comes home
with quilt
threaded through with burning needle,
golden and shining as laughter.
sunshine, bird song, occasional
thunderstorm, voices of sobbing gods
cutting onions (chop, chop, chop)
always upturned faces sewn into thick
rectangle, staring at me
while all anger fades into an ocean
flowing perpetually away,
façade for Nations
this morning she left the house with
sheet of white, waiting for melody of day to paint itself in bright colors
like days before and days before and night
tonight she comes home with warning.
upturned faces embarassed, studying
shoelaces with intense concentration
bright eyes far from mine
all that pushes itself into a quiet mind
is the sea
flowing not to cover countries miles from Known World
to me.
closer, closer, closer
a sea of human experience but not
the type in nostalgic memoir
loud as sob, calling my name
you could lose all
it says
the good isn't all
it says
and laughing, laughing, laughing
lips coated in salt.
