Once inside, I dress my mother’s
eyes from scratch—school it with
the salt of the oxen waves that un-map the
skin of the sea humming against their weight.
Meanwhile, the young tulip tree that she grew
in the backyard softens into the shape of darkness.
Outside, I hear the voice of a man who slips the
bodies of his two buried children through the fog
after his wife finishes counting their ribs, questioning their
bruises that held sufficient grace to borrow another year.
Somewhere, a hare crawls on all fours
and prepares its throat for a capable panic.
Soon, soon, the house grows old. One by one,
the calm leaves turn sleepless in our hands.