I wanted mother's eyes to shine brighter than any
saw-toothed coastline, than any Sunday morning
Hallelujah, or a sunflower bulged to blossom. Wanted
her hip's rhythm swing in every syllable, stomping
thunderclaps into wood-slatted boards. Her feet followed
down the dirt painted path, all the way home. Pieces
from the hallway picture splintered in knuckles, calloused
and craggy as his pursed lips railing against the wind
in his voice’s hoarse box. Wanted shard-teeth gnashed
with a bitten tongue and silence. I wanted her soft
voice and his Mack-truck rumble caught in
my poetry’s slow, blue ring.
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