Have you noticed lately
your sagging pinions?
A decrease of nectar
in the neckskin. Stomach
like a blank sack, a slack
snap. Those duck feet,
paddling mad. From down
here, I see how you straddle
the ledge of ambition.
Know this: no leap
can be calculated,
no distance exactly measured.
Climb down. Dig your hole.
I know your sadness bleeds
inward, like a nick in the wrist
made more sick by your picking.
Lay next to me.
Reach through dirt
and hold my hand, Princess,
though my skinrot sloughs
toward you like a loose glove.
I’m lonely. Aren’t you?
Header photograph © Jackie Mantey.
[…] sweet. I really love the piece (“My Mother Speaks to Me From The Grave, Again” by Jill Khoury) paired with my image of snow […]