Scott Carter at Silk Creek with Graham
Untitled (for my mother)
The house that raised your children
Through windows and beyond walls
Into weeds raised without reference
To measure or framework.
Save for the stones where vines
Surprise, constrict, devour...
Weeds have become a name
For the flowers we knew
And I scarcely remember
The difference anymore.
And the vines?
That hunger lies somewhere
Beneath all of this.
A broken shovel
A rusted hoe
And the sharp toothed rake
Overcome with the tangled voice
I can't pull the weeds from your voice
When you tell me the leaves I see at night
Or that my body is not mine when I look
At myself...Only when I sleep
Rests a heartbeat and sometimes I remember
The trees that held me
Away from the vines.
Looking for the Circular