Lucy Alexander #82 Inkling

My mother specialized in staining

in inking up the sky

mixing indigo with aubergine

weaving the thundercloud's gloom

into conversations and squalling

morning with shadow.

She worked on technique

simulating thunder that made

hearts stop on the scale of blackened notes

fingers working over those keys

that most made raise happen

bitten lips before the applause of the raindrops.

My mother was all discord when she chose it

swam lengths of the bay with her teeth

rowed a boat to green island just to be alone

walked all the streets of London looking for

a familiar doorway, a teacher, a wooden peg.

She worked on stairs, leaning on railings

she followed the bruise that tattooed

across her seldom heart. My mother knew

the sunset’s blister, flew across the world

to avoid flying, made seven homes and left them all

sighing, clicking her teeth.