photo: ralph murre
by Marc J. Frazier
Husks of insects scattered in the grass,
a memory fights to be freed like this:
the long road to your sister’s farm—it was August then too—
that morning you consoled her,
weaving her loss into your own thick skein of trepidation.
It is difficult to swallow.
Dust devils swirl on the dry lawns.
The locusts drone.
This is no place for words to take root.
What you want to say lies inside—as infertile as her womb.
What is our biggest enemy you wonder.
Even in dreams her face turns towards you—a flower to light.
How many times do we choose the right word, the right gesture?
This will do for now, you decide.
But this is what you want for her:
a swarm of children heated from play
who find her always there, transformed into light itself.
They grow around her.
~ first published in Permafrost