Besides, We Thread Needles
We bury our parents behind the garden gate,
interred beneath roses and shields. My mother
is the rose. Fragrant. We forgive the obvious; we
forgive the pricks. Your father is the shield. This
is a wall. This is a step into a glass door. I
make a promise with cigarettes on highways
that glass is still transparent.
I make a promise with cigarettes on highways,
a trail-smattering to thread this needle - the needle
that fell; the needle that, I tell you in thimbled smirks,
has somehow threaded itself. Smoke tendrils up
past the small cherry glows, piercing its way through
muddling smog of the cityscape lines behind.