A Missing Child
Will she come back through the door?
Where is she? How is she coping with
We move on, live life without the questions
but how can you erase memories etched
in your brain like acid that eats away
gnawing and chattering the fibers
she swallows from a glass bowl.
A call in a summer afternoon;
they’ve found a body in the boon
docks, near the weed, heating tall grass
where she lay, they say. Come to
I hold my breath
sheet is pulled away from her
face, rustling, and my mind
reels, expecting to see the famous mole
above her lips a Bermuda triangle
scar wrinkle in the corner
of her mouth as she smiles.
But it is not her. They look uncannily
similar, but it is not her.
Floodgates of hope
open revitalize the wastelands,
crickets thawed out of ice, chirring,
as our hearts melt and go through the
tortuous steps again of bereavement and
wandering like an oil filter, becoming black
as the blackest star
turning night to day, and moonshine to
greasy lubricant that move our engine,
one throttle at a time.