I.

until the mindless hours of night,

flout cellos strain the tunes

shifty shadows.

stagger, under a coronet moon.


rustle of handmade dresses and voiceless chatter,

of dried glands spoiled in milk, guild

the finger painted echo of her

clutching mother’s sooted pea coat.


I listen to paper dolls toss and turn

in her shoe box below the stairs.

A cradle rocks

in my broken stagger’s shadow,

under her coronet crescent moon.



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