You believe in me – above the noise & chaos,
bridges that swing & break with the weight of our words
Everything grows spiny & fragile with breakage
Still, you play harmonica with a country grin,
Your hands black with swiping at all the repairs
And the guitar has a loose string – the music out of reach
in the wide expanse of this house
The money that goes away, the hand carried letters
I lay like court evidence at your feet –
I have the names of the dead growing on my back
All the praise songs are out of breath
And still you point at the open sky, wide eyed, believing,
I have the fey luck of the Irish, a nice laugh,
a disposition ready to please – As I cup my hand
around a child’s crayon, marking x after x on the calendar –
Biting my lip, and nodding, pressing so hard the color
breaks in my hand
(image from internet)
