I sold her bed for a song.
A song of yearning like an orphan’s.
Or the one knives carve into bread.
But the un-broken bread
Song too. For the song that rivers
Sing to the ferryman’s oars. With
that dread in it.
For a threadbare tune: garroted,
Chest-choked, cheap. A sparrow’s,
beggar’s, a foghorn’s call.
For the kind of song only morning
Can slap on love-stained sheets –
that’s what I sold my mother’s
Bed for. The one she died in. Sold it
For a song.