My mother mends my wounds with a needle as sharp as her tongue. Then smooths her stitches with a gentle touch.

Sitting in his broken chair, my father nods his approval. He lights another cigar.

A sparrow begins to sing a lullaby. The sky darkens. So dark we can’t imagine morning appearing.

As we go to sleep, smoke from the fire curls up the chimney and writes the word, ‘Alas’ in the sky.

the man
no longer a child–
leaves the nest

Lafcadio