Poem-a-Day

           a golden bracelet, the one from your mother, you mean to pass onto your daughter, not the oldest one because she is the story of travel, but the next one who holds your skirt when you sit on the couch reading the news in English 

flowers ribbon a single braid 
you comb her hair with your fingers, lace in silk threads,  
tatreez, alphabet home

prayer 
prayer 
prayer 
                  good night my darlings

                                                sky fall

            caved breastplate 
            curled spine 
            thunder  
            against   
prayer  
prayer 
prayer  
                  knees crack 
                  wrists bound 
                  slit up the middle  
           They will show the pictures of you collapsing onto the stones, they will show you 
ground into stone, they will shovel you under the world, they will go after more. 

            And you molten.