the composers of rain
fight gently
but fight
nonetheless
over the brush
that first touched
my mother’s
teeth.  mother

is asleep.  I’d leave

a thumbprint
but am not sure
which lid
covers
the eye
she drinks with.  I want to say

dying
is the bath
we draw
for death
but know
father
can’t hear
a thing
since losing
his voice.  

/

though I am rarely old enough to have seen a boat

the boat is weeping