Like a swollen willow suicide.
The dog does not bark,
She does as she is told.
Your hands can cover mouths.
They do.
They can not fight forward.
They try.
This trust was battered
In a seventeen-layer crust.
I do not know
If your mother hugged
Her typewriter, that day.
If she had one.
If your father was not
A lark.
I do know that they injected you with teeth.
But my jawline broke its back
To forgive you.
Ten miles
And a lifetime of hours
To walk them.
This was your gift,
You starry-willed monolith.
You forgiver of self,
I traced your name more than my own
And plagued my ears with your story.
Escape is not bred from captivity,
But from the relinquishing of pain.
And so I have not escaped,
But I am free.
The sky is hotter here.
The grass less green.
You are very much alive,
So I hear.
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