An egret with a fish speared on his beak.
Not your hands wringing out the wet corner of a shirt.
Steam from a shower that belongs to our mother.
Not a fire scrubbing us all.
A branch leaning too hard on a fence.
Not a mailman reaching for letters we write our parents who can’t read anymore.
Balancing on one leg, our hands over our heads waving at the end of swells.
Not a broken flag in our neighbor’s yard.
Our mother’s body.
Not our mother’s body.
Our father’s body.
Not our father’s body.
A grief come to our shores.
A landscape breaking.