mouth full of moon, full of mourn.
how lights on the horizon,
remind you of your neighbors’ homes,
rows of shops with bread and tiny oranges,
daffodils wrapped in paper,
a town across the water
identifiable in its sameness to yours.
tonight, a comet and eclipse
happened somewhere in the sky.
also somewhere:
someone’s mother’s hands
had no papers.
someone’s mother’s hands-
relatable in their sameness to yours-
had no hold on her home.

photo and poem by katherine ferrier ©2017


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