by Mathew Thorburn
Mother tunneled under the fence she caught the last
bus the last train she flew away like the last
lark I haven’t seen one for weeks one foot in front
of the other she’d say so maybe she walked away
climbed a hill crossed the mountains
she drifted away the way a song does into your ear
into the air she slipped under Grandfather’s black hat
left her reflection in the glow of Jean’s clarinet
she swirled with the last hot water down the drain
into the deep breath between “Bucket’s Got A Hole”
and “Keyhole Blues” she cut the light
unzipped her shadow I wanted to
hold on but Father pushed her away so she
wouldn’t disappear the way he did wouldn’t reappear
the way he did floating face in the mud.
