I watched seven
loving mothers, loving
sisters, depart from the road-
side, their children seen
safely to the bus.

I wonder if they ever think
their child might die
that day, and the last they will see
of him is that
very morning, and perhaps they cry
over the sink when he's gone.

I saw a broken lamp on the roof
of a house, weathered
and torn, the cord trailing in
the window, a tendril to find
a way back inside.

I wonder if there is anyone
in the house and in the
mind, the story behind the lamp,
and why they keep
the cord to plug it in.

I push my fingers through
your mouth to make you vomit
the words you won't tell me.