brittle portraits

brittle portraits slip


from their albums’ sticky pages

our lord, once wrapped in linen,
sits on a stone waiting to be kissed

the vintage coin, that burnished sun, glints

our lord emerges from his declivity, lids still closed

our father invents a system:
the family’s hustle blooms,
the sisters discover that slender, delectable missives
have shone beyond the albums’ pages
from behind the portraits

our mother’s stricken intensity
swirls cotton into thread
she wants to tie us all together
before she goes
her fern swoops
insects crawl up stems towards her

our lord, once discarded, composes a series,
filling flesh with blood



p.s.--this one's not from the new collection. not sure where it will go, if anywhere. it was written at the same time as the other ones, but didn't fit in there.