Tell Me

Elizabeth Raby

Do you make your awkward way through water?
Does pity choke on the dagger of your splay-fingered stroke?

Does wet wool cling to your valleys and shadows?
Or have they set you to clearing stones?

Do the stones return again and again on the winds?
Do clouds lick your feet?

Did they fit wings to the birthmarks on your shoulders?
Is there a true north to pierce your heart?

Or is it all a silent darkness?
In that place do sleeping facts lie?

Mother—my clock winds down without you.

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