"Oh Lord Jesus," breathes the mother, as the old man tinkers away at her ice cream truck.
And her sons play in the yard, unaware their breakfast hangs in arms of the old man.
I whisper my own plead, observing from my porch,
"Oh Lord Jesus."

And when the ink of the night
Locks your eyes shut,
Remember the light
For you are not done.

All the hungry eyes
Are pulled to the center set, roaring fire.
She seers excitement and anticipation
Onto cold skin.

But the outlying glow
Of the saucer eyed, girl
Scaling the rim of each room
Can also spread warmth
Wich may even reach your bones.

They call a certain part of the night,
When the darkest ink lays before dawn,
The Witching Hour.
And in every corner of this room,
I hear echoes of my whispers to you.
Phantom limbs intertwine,
As if it were November
And like clockwork,
You'd hush my words
With sad lips
Knowing I'd be left here in June.
And when I feel the weight of your chest
Heaving with lavender,
Just know I'm still strong
In this Bewitching Hour.

There was a drought in our home
All were left dry to the bone
Rather than taking careful measures
You carried me up the mountain
To drown me in the sea of trees

Read me O'Hara
As we sit on the Seine  
And I'll swirl my toes in perfect circles
While I watch your shoulders rise and fall.

You'll stop for a cigarette
And I'll beam, remembering the poem
I wrote solely dedicated to the laugh you
Make while you smoke.

Can you see the water dripping from your mother's mouth?  
It's been giving you life since before your father ever took a sip.
And at times, it scorches the prints right off your fingertips but you still have the same blood.
This same blood, which mixes with the water dripping from your own mouth, turns to wine as your lover grazes each corner of the lips that always turn down.
And as they purse into the softest circle, you remember the way your mother smiled with her mouth, full.