Trouble Me

When I speak like this, dismantled, dismantling,
my losses removed, in the service of trimming thorns-
do I betray you?


If you insist that terrible stones,
mounting dirt that cover the hills are not some form of forgiveness-
I must correct you.


If your hand held mine,
the one that erases its struggles like damaged nerve,
would you be so cruel as to make them real?


Once, I wrote "The Queen is dead." and the whole kingdom mourned.

When a mother forgets her child- the child is homeless.