A Theory of Persistence
Our mother’s grief crawled out of a dead soldier’s chest
like three fox children, pointed muzzle forward.
There were starlings strung through with twine, limp but still singing.
Nothing will be the color of fresh water again.
This is how it feels to bunch mountains in your hands,
roots dragging up dirt like wildflowers. Honeysuckle and sweet grass.
Each stalk offers itself to be braided, reckless and numb,
their voices the voice of sorrow but too quiet and too small.