I carried one grief while courting
Because the moon pulled in
a tide of early dirt—
Because I could not bury both
my mother and a child
Because the living
child wanted to go to that place, mama—
With the beautiful stones, where people leave
flowers and presents
And now we are up each night with her sleepless
fear of falling
into those dark holes.
Because the dirt was too—
And my hands were—.
I’m throwing red thread over my shoulders,
salting my grievances.
Listen, in the woods
we are banished from—
the owls are giving back the bones
of the ones—if they lived
we might have loved.
Copyright © 2020 Cori A. Winrock
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.