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Show The Grasses Unload Their Grief Our feet didn't touch the ground all year, But we marched: gray smoke, One leg following the other, Curved like scythes, Turning with the measure Of blades of grass rippling in a field. The three of us: our skin removed, Laid away like winter covers from a bed. Underneath wasn't flesh, bone or blood, Though all our organs kept. I could see right into my mother and father. In each of their mists A coiled chain. Then, shame or no shame, I knew I looked the same Only smaller. A son, a brother. By the time we slipped Back into our bodies, The chain had shrunk Like an umbilical cord. Instead of words, my mother uttered syllables That fit onto silver teaspoons Whose glossy oval backs flew into the sky. Instead of words, my father blew cinders, Leaving soot everywhere As I looked from below The jut of Never / |
