MURMUR POUR MA MERE

died in the wool
interred in the down
down down below
where the sand shifts slow

whisper powder in a sleeping ear
drop a rung from wake-up’s ladder
let the grains tell the brain
of an unfilled spotlight on the stage

a mother of uncertain sighs
highway roam in a mobile home
a patchwork blanket sewn
but never reaped outside bedsheets

hairpins turn
unfurl a bless'ed tress
‘cross a vacant breast
long-missed and amethyst

secre-tarry for a moment
the oft-pricked finger lingers
and the dictaphone phrases
the pitter-patter of little defeats

will the watermill forever roll?
the spokes, finely scored,
bear buckets of white oak board
to keep a jejune heart fully-flooded.


***