Mother Lost Her Tongue
I looked for it with
the forgotten seashells
because I didn’t understand
and sometimes that isn’t the same as
an ancient reliquary.
Script I couldn’t read,
left to wither from heat in an unmarked box in the attic.
Clutched gingerly, as if it was fragile and precious
Eyes glittering like the fishing lures left to collect dust in the garage,
we got white bread and fatty chicken thighs at the grocery store.
The blood from his rare steak seeping across my plate and into my mashed potatoes.
My black box
flotsam in the foam.
Am I supposed to feel like the
I want to carry this
but it is so heavy.