at Mother's funeral,
just the family
and the woman
too proud
to be called a maid
he killed himself
in front of his mother
and she, only five foot tall,
couldn't stop him
but she tried.
two new graves
cut in the winter turf;
my sister buries
her mother
and her son
they lay him to rest
next to his grandmother
the thinnest scythe
of moon
sinks into the trees
no matter how
the river rushes,
it cannot wash away
the shadow
of the tree
he takes a teapot
from his collection
in the curio cabinet
and shares a silent cup
with his daughter
flotsam
after the storm . . .
the dock crumpled
on the beach,
seagulls fishing
in the waning hours
of day,
the moon rises
above
the waterfall
no matter
how I put
my shoulder
to the river,
it doesn’t budge
