No good can come of this.
There is only oxygen in
my palm, where cracked lines
undulate and follow the salty
tunnels of years—faucet drips,
mouthfuls of testimonials.
Earth is collected in a toddler’s
plastic cup, clumps of grass
and stock-piles of sticks, like curios
stored in a torn pocket.
A factory of rain water and
prayers in the clouds.
Out of reach, stars and molecules
tease and ridicule. He goes for marbles,
trucks, tinkers, pouches of sand.
I packed and unpacked suitcases,
let grief keep her clothes on. I lined up
pill bottles like a stodgy parliament.
Plate in hand, I saw in a shadow
on the wall, my son bite his toast
into the shape of a gun. That night,
bullet-holes in the moon, in our palms


Photo by quiddle.

Cynthia Atkin
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