The First Piece
She locks the bedroom
door sometimes
and stares out windows
and her purple silence
reminds me
(those two inevitables, gate keys)
of the man that would give the child
a gift,
not the right gift but a gift
and though she knew the ploy, the mother
would stand off and watch –
refusing to become anything like the man
– and when the child was glad
the man stole away, robbed
him, a
prospector striking tears,
and the mother had to plug the hole where
his trust
had been.
When we land in this universe
our wailing splash
we make ripples
and always
always
come back to them.
Chris D. Linke Used with permission
life: acoustic & amplified 