It was easier before time dictated the where and the why of her day. Time pulled at her sinews and greyed her hair, a yoke so strong she forgot to notice the hummingbird chattering in the datura, or the palm frond swinging on the telephone wire; swinging to its own rhythm, careless in its dips and swaggers as the voltage sang beneath and above it. She forgot to look for the hidden four-leaf clover waiting in her back yard to give her the luck she so longed for. Tied to time, she strained against the ticks and missed the space between them, those flashes of freedom that were hers for the taking.

Brother

You told me and then I told you

I wasn’t listening

No room for your words

My words had me full

I suspect it might have been something like that for you

We were spitting words out like watermelon seeds off the dock

That sank into that weedy marsh we called the lake

Then fists were all we had left

Or did I dream there were words?

Maybe we started with fists

Mute to express the complicated helix of rage

Passed down from countless generations

Now you are gone and I can’t ask

What you said and what you heard

I can only finger this scar on my chin

Your one of many gifts to me

 Tending to Black 

The pen was old and had not been used for many years. Its words in the diaries were wrapped in tissue and packed in the attic with the photos, crib and layette. The curvaceous sounds of laughter that had filled the cottage had soured like milk left too long on the counter. The wild thoughts that had bubbled on the stove filling the house with the scent of joy and laughter gathered dust in the cabinets, cold and tending to black. A lone mouse cruised through the rooms every evening at dusk, the scent of fresh grass on its fur.

Published online at 13MynaBirds in January 2019