Wrapped twice around a frail neck
is the lace from my mother’s slip
slipping further from where she ought to go
going forward in the most domestic way
Pale in a pretty green dress
waves sway back and forth around me
mashing and folding
bending and molding
to the perfect dirty
dirt dinner taste of pebbles
dark and dirt
dirty fingernails peeling like the apples
we baked our autumn pie
with the crisp
crispy child’s eye
late night teary sleep
sleeping slumber
she’s birthed another one to keep
keeping count of many
This is number twelve
he is bouncing and joyful with eleven to feed
feeding tiny tongue and laughter
laughing from a French name’s meaning
The Word Mill 