Grievances
The sycamores swaying
in reprise, our voices
drifting in fracture.
This distance is soft
with Mama’s breath,
as we’d imagined it.
Ghosts of a womb
tuck the air in guilt,
our throats heavy
with apology. Tonight,
the pale moonbeams
will rattle our bodies
apart, limbs sighing
into the dirt. How
do we tell Mama
we are sorry if
our mouth is knotted?
We let the wind
set still into our
tongues, burn it to
ready us for the
battlefield. The fires
razing our skin, hills
drooping in mist. You
thumbed the smoke
into summer—summer
of our frames hunched
in shame. Mama folded
in sorrow, light
against feeble railings,
like children trust
falling into space.
Perhaps we, too,
will be forgiven
on the field, sky
shrouding our faults.
źródło: Read A Little Poetry
10.09.2026