Writings to Our Mother V | Page 26

23 writings to our mother Plastic murder case sits unused as electric chair lineup files through. “But Sam said!”, they cry. Do you miss the point more clearly on a sunny afternoon? - or more steadfast thrown on dew lit lasso-casting shadows of so low-commotion movement. “Thank you Barbara Tarbox, I owe it all to you.” Small white knives sting lungs, I sit In smoke filled room manufacturing Normalcy as filtering through Her name, sits clad in ember, softly On my lips read - carefully not - soon Introduced - for signals cross Sign waves in motion with loose Digit movement, lost affectation of A luminescent grief Her name sits foreign on my lips, Loose fitting with intentions only And given in effect “Thank you Barbara Tarbox, you built a fortress of me.”