23
writings to our mother
Plastic murder case sits unused as electric chair lineup
files through. “But Sam said!”, they cry. Do you
miss the point more clearly on a sunny afternoon?
- or more steadfast thrown on dew lit lasso-casting
shadows of so low-commotion movement.
“Thank you Barbara Tarbox, I owe it all to you.”
Small white knives sting lungs, I sit
In smoke filled room manufacturing
Normalcy as filtering through
Her name, sits clad in ember, softly
On my lips read - carefully not - soon
Introduced - for signals cross
Sign waves in motion with loose
Digit movement, lost affectation of
A luminescent grief
Her name sits foreign on my lips,
Loose fitting with intentions only
And given in effect
“Thank you Barbara Tarbox, you built a fortress of
me.”