the maternal bond

of hands veered away in fright

are skin thin strings gone astray


my palm, a gentle smear

across the wells of your

hollowed cheeks, such that

all doubt and fear may be

cast out, it’s presence;



I, ground my knees as

etchings into oiled wooden

planks; as the soil of my

sorrow drips, filling the fine

lines of our foundation.


the eventual decay

of mortality, fills my

mouth like a flock of

white doves; leaving

well kept

our palms clasped in an

uneasy disposition, and

fingers wound into a spiral

of enclosed memories; are

these the only tell tale signs

we know of well-kept silence?

to forgive

will you look – point blank

into the iris of mistake,

loosen your pursed lips,

unwind your iron heart;

to the sway of forgiveness?