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Hot Cross

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Hot Cross

Scrape Wisdom

'This is what you owe the dead.'
Again and again.

Tendons stretched and strangled.
Face poured flesh from head.
A Family's ties are mengled like
mother falling out of dead.

This is what I know:
Blue faced efforts that fail to reveal the color of her shadow.

My sense caught in a stone's throw and cleaner slates
that keep track of all the baggage I tow.
Scrape wisdom of the tomb.
Early morning scars from masks shed in favor of never, or is it forever?

A mourning lost to secrets I'll never erase.