Sand in our Guts

There is no pearl
to be found
in these eddies and swirls,
yet,
the grains of sand
in our guts
…into the soul,
they are ground.

It may not matter now,
but,
perhaps,
in a thousand years,
Mother,
in her finery,
will sip her wine
and fondly remember me –

wistfully,

touching

a string of my laments,
hanging a bit
less heavily
around her neck.

Has the last hatchling
finally left the nest?

Little bird, half-blind,
nearly featherless,
was ground to grist,
amidst
the blades of
cold wind-machines,
and all the other
horrible things
the earliest eggs
had left

…behind.

Stones,
through the gullet,
we, the birds,
pretend to have a pearl,
when it’s really
just gravel

…chew with
the broken teeth
of a broken world.

“Oh, mother, we are your oyster.”

To mourn is her habit.

Tip the glass,
and watch the wine
eddy and swirl.


©️ 2020.

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