“You should have buried your mother a long time ago”,
the porcelain whispered in crumbs.
All the lost moments gave me a guilty look like monumental landscapes
no one could see through. The only one I frighten with these thoughts
is me. There’ no way back, no proof.
She sculpted a quiet face out of the passion she brought
from her childhood. A spiders web of cracks a a guide.
Arms and legs. Disappointment as sawdust. In the
garden of her mother the pond
had been dry for many years now. Above the roar of the fairground
the sirens broke a thought:
“Shake well before use”.