Mother of Rock
The familiar clack of shoes against tile, click
of the key in the lock. Wait and rock.
Your gaze silent and grim, I long for the touch
that doesn’t come. My tongue caught
on my mouth’s cage
tart with sour milk.
In the picture from your wedding,
a white lace dress. As if held
down by the weight of fancy fabric,
your bones ache to float off the edges
of the frame. Mother of stone,
teach me the temperature
of tomb. Watch me chase my tail.
Toss me a cloth, a bottle of milk.