we counted our mother's shoes
on the day that she left.

her silver rings hung on chains,
thin and silver too.

this was our home,
where she took off her
broken hands and
turned her glass
heart to dust.
she only floated when she left
so the wind and the sea could
carry her
her red wine and red body felt
heavy then.
a thick coat of honey on her tongue


what have you made of her, my
mother.
where did you keep her heart when you were
done with it.
what did you cover her eyes with?
you didn’t untie your tombs
from her when you threw
her into the ocean
why did she drown for you?


she mistook your hardness for understanding.
she mistook your attachment for trust
and you, so blind, led (let) her.