We are not soldiers
But for every heart
That breaks yonder
Tears falling
Feeling loss
There are my brothers

For every mother
Aching with the pain
Of deprivation
Of sorrow for child’s loss
For anguish in imagined failure
To care for her kin
There is my sister

For every ounce of sand
Seedling buried in the earth
There is my mother

And for every shame birthed
That I took pleasure to learn from
In my labors and my leisure
There is my father

For everything
That is part of one
Whilst separate part of none
Riddles and riff raff
There am I
Related to everyone and everything
That grows green
Walks, crawls, slithers, or swims
Rots, falls, and withers
Therein all glory lye my kin

In the morning she eats garlic,
A bowl of them, boiled in a mixture.
Then medicine, then some kind of a
Breakfast. She stares into the blank
Of a day. Everything the same.
She does her usual things: clean,
Sweep, exercise, sometimes she reads.
I do not know what she does in the day,
Only the setting sun tells me of the lights
She doesn’t leave on, because “electrical bills”.

He says she spoiled the fridge, the kettle,
Even the tv doesn’t make a sound anymore.

She’s like a child. She whines, laughs,
Tells me off. She observes, dismisses.
She is the dying tip of an autumn leaf.
My silence is the autumn wind.
Cold, but not cold enough.

I do not know of the things she does in the day.
What does she do when the food is cooking in the pan?
Or when it rains and she rushes to save the laundry.
Only the chattering and muttering
From her creased mouth,
(the neighbours, groceries, the tv)
Tells me that she speaks only to herself.

She switches the tv on
before she leaves the house.
She sleeps before 9 pm.

She leaves in June, and I don’t know what she does in the day.