HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY MUTTI
Monday
Saturday
winter triptych
sometimes stuck in this clear jar,
which happens to hold
a cardboard drink
which is the name of this country,
almost slurped down now
to its saccharine bottom.
the snow on the ground
burns white sun patches
into our eyes
and gives the cold,
brown mud clumps in our hair
a dingy glisten.
it must have seemed easier, better
to decline the autopsy: not to know
whether the tragedy was even more tragic,
the well of burnt chances, disappointments
and abuse perhaps still deeper
than their sad, hopeful pain.
Tuesday
Monday
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