[listen mother, he punched the air: I am not your son dying]
listen mother, he punched the air: I am not your son dying
the day fades and the starlings roost: a body’ s a husk a nest of goodbye
his wrist colorless and soft was not a stick of chewing gum
how tell? well a plastic bracelet with his name for one. & no mint
his eyes distinguishable from oysters how? only when pried open