Happle-

Jane has the strength,
we have all felt it, the presence behind her eyes.
She draws upon it,
the analagous well, and I think,
herself.

I have seen it in likely places:
after she removes her rings so she can knead the dough;
the way she watches the road on rainy days;
her smile straining in discomfort.
Jane’s eyes alone stilled rooms.
But when her hand lay
on the arm of the weathered rocking chair,
the voice remained the same.

The halls were so noisy
when we yelled. Our voices hit harder,
impacting the skin.
Set upon each other,
we left scraps on the walls, almost pulp.
There are places where I can no longer stand.

In that upstairs room
she would hold me.
Words like pennies in the well,
absorbed, forgotten.
And my wishes would rise
like the smell of morning bread,
and flood her breath.

The halls are quiet. The roads are dry.

Jane, repeat after me.




GLS
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