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All around these mulberry bushes, my words ran like gravel fountains. Panic set in like a shot of straight gin and the juniper berries stained colorless thin. If it’s an art, I’ll make it a craft, build a log raft for the long journey down. A river that rides the edge of the town. Logs limp and waiting to drown and the fathers on the levy afraid of the sound. Concrete floors in pastel houses on streets where we stayed under sycamore trees. The jail cells where mothers made babies with lovers, impossible ways to be found. Nail file dreams and cakes without seams and a daughter who sings without knowing what it means. An oversize guitar in undersized hands, making birthmarked plans out of one night stands. Breaking and entering a splintering season, a cold hearted reason to keep holding on. Dash for the border, run faster and harder and don’t tell anyone where you’ve gone. In pictures we see you, no toys or gold features. The movies they make seem fictitious enough. Shipyards and stories will bring you no glory. A sister’s sister who missed her.
