Photo by Dawid Łabno via Unsplash

 

Sharp Dawn

All night long, black moths
shattered my bed with their bodies. 
I see your shape in the hallway
growing from my gnawed 
fingernails, bowing toward the earth.

Who am I to honor you, Mother?
Bring in your dog, sit by the fire. 
I have wine cooling in the bucket, 
bread and cheese on the table.

Your scythe drags its shadow 
over the threshold 
like an unwanted child. 

The slippery blade curves 
under the burden. I recognize my fear 

in the throaty croak of a rooster.


First published in Poetry South, Issue 11, 2019 (print edition only)