Evenings

Evenings

 

An entire country fed

Upon one psyche of a bearded

fool who grew flowers

From his mistakes.

Those millions who recounted

His songs with voices papery

Loose, crumbled fluttering

Through the mammoth stairs

That lead to a small room

Where the heady fingers of incense

Beckoned me at once, toward

And away from its revolting

Taste of piety.

 

Downstairs on the cool floor

My mother played an instrument

With a neck like I wish I had

that did not cry but hummed

At tones, merely suggesting

What it thought the air should

Vibrate.

My mother played an instrument

that bellowed, cried out against

The cruel breath of air, gasping

Not with love but because it must.

My mother played her voice

In the key of fool.

 

Meanwhile, tiny statues

Repeated themselves

In front of my eyes.

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