What am I if the words go?
I can't muster myself to elaborate.
For now, I'm here: Christmas Eve morning, the damping of the darkness. The bodies of my children are cargo: the furrows of their ribs, their breath freighting the rooms I've walked out of, through the doors, the hall, down the stairs, stealing through my home. I mean stealing home– the speeding sun, quiet trundling down its track.