Ken Trimble #8 Footsteps brother

I still have trouble at her death,
I saw a body with blue feet,
her eyes were open and her mouth
did not speak.

My numbness knew no time,
the night before I massaged her
feet,

and the night before that
I watched Close encounters,
a boat lay on its side in Mongolia.

I had sunk my fourth can of beer
while Dreyfuss carved his mystic mash.

I was getting drunk while you were
getting dying.

Bruised and battered, body born to die,
I wanted to taste the fire on my tongue.

If the water was clear enough,
if the water was still enough
perhaps I could have seen
the warning sounds on your
milked breast.

That night I cried to the wind
and sleep.

Footsteps before the October dawn,
brother, brother, our mother has died.