The body of Abel dies on his body. Dead
in the fields.
The young dead, helpless as children,
trust god but Never knew a bad thing
to eat your mother.
Eyes cut from Her
eyes were as big as a glass of paint.
Watch the lashes how they never close them,
a hollowed out—
Wide and Light that’s a good thing.
A mother is, by nature, a lamp( bright and sudden with
the flashes of the dead).
Her time badly spent, her fear
of ghosts;
They are a mimic.
All her loves, they are a mimic
they are a loveless contortion and their exciting
future blooms in Full Red out of our reach.
— Miriam Garra is living and working in Baltimore, Maryland.