Saturday, March 7, 2015

these floorboards are built on 
ashes from extinguished flames 
dried scabs from pearled knuckles 
and dust from childhood  games


father's cheeks are stained with worry
his bones tremble in the cold 
I reach out to warm his hands 
but realize any embers I have left, I've sold 


the ground has begun to give in now
and the first to be swallowed is me
I cling to a piece of the wreckage
that crocheted eyes 
will never 
see 

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