i guess i’ll never know.
a poem about how it goes.
my mom dies
and i pick up
where i left
off.
i stop painting canvasses and
i start woodcarving — my body
the wood, my engravings fueled by
every familial secret i was
a poem about how it goes.
my mom dies
and i pick up
where i left
off.
i stop painting canvasses and
i start woodcarving — my body
the wood, my engravings fueled by
every familial secret i was