sometimes, mama would cut
willow spruces while summer blinked
and with each eyelash it torn,
i swear a piece of her apron
just disappeared, too.

then there were splitting ends
of cut-off stories, words in
snippets, laid in tragedy
with no sunset or
whatever the hell it is

i grimaced at books,
at glossy illustrations

and dawn's the vagrant tear,
evaporated into blisters.