What stardust lies beneath mud
and solitude in the mangroves. What sings us
sweet nothings to the stiffness we hide
in our bodies? There’s a longing

for the maps of our unpretty. Touching
the crevices for regions marked along
in silence after the violence strips a glow
from our forgotten smiles. Do you remember

the last time you were mouthed? There
lies an absence between fervor and acceptance
the way how my mother holds my father
mangled mouth the first time the shrapnel

shatters his jaw after a robbery. The first time
his callous mouth is a jagged language
for her lips only. The first time she plants
her hands against the scar tissue

after surgery. The first time I watch him
after therapy, stretch for a vowel. O’ his mouth
shapes my mother’s name for comfort.
Hold still now. I know where the pain is.

Let me rub it here. Let me rub it here.
I watch my mother find harmony
lodged where the bullet dwells
in his bones. O’ for how long

I crave for a similar touch
between shimmer and umbra
when my charmless days
have wilted away

Hold still now.
Let me rub.
Let me rub it.
Here.

 

 

Rodrick Minor