He asked for his mother at the end
forgetting it was always her cutting him
into smaller and smaller pieces
until he was no bigger than a hankie
when he came to me he still had her claw marks
and I thought I could fix him like a kintsugi pot
sticking him back together with golden words and time
I am old now and out of gold
just a stew of consciousness seasoned with salt and thyme
I bubble away like a tar pit full of the bones of my ancestors
or other cattle
I’ve lost my joined up thinking and my words
dribble
with sepia
yet I know this one thing for sure
in the end we are only able
to save ourselves
Adele Evershed was born in Wales and has lived in Asia before settling in Connecticut. Her poetry and prose have been published in a number of journals and anthologies Adele has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net for poetry. Finishing Line Press published her poetry chapbook, Turbulence in Small Places this year and her novella-in-flash, Wannabe, was published by Alien Buddha Press in May. Her second poetry collection, The Brink of Silence will be available from Bottlecap Press later this year.
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