Watershed

And then, of course, the journal Mother gifted

Back when Friday felt like another

Christmas. I write: it never snows these

Days. I write a children’s

Ending, because I watch the news sometimes.

Fairytales never make it past the watershed. Buried by

God's fence. The grown-up stuff when the prophets are grateful

Horrorshows in bright ties and flower dresses, mourning

In Chelsea Gardens. No, water. They never mention the

Jackets, always black,

Kneeling,

Lost as my spent time, thinking.

Me?

No. I don’t take the path by the garden anymore.

On another December, I might, if I make it. Under as a stillborn bulb

Pest-eaten, that journal. I didn’t use the

Quill, when she told me: write all you’re grateful for.

Really, when I pace through thoughts, unwritten pages

Space, space, space. No time, so

There’s no use trying to

Understand my blank passages. It’s better to watch the

Violets and say: Mother, I can’t write anything like this. I can’t find

Who I’m looking for. But on Sunday, I found your old

X-rays. Am I grateful? To catch the bloom, miss the wilting. Those

Yellow pages, no contact details despite the size. I look up God: Any.

Zeus, Lazarus, Hades. Still, no one answers the phone. It’s after 9 pm.