A year later
Lives later
Daughters and sons
Sisters and brothers
Mothers and fathers
Cousins, aunts, uncles
Gone away now
Not dust in the wind but
Mesquite leaves beaten down by
Hailstones falling all too quickly
All too often
Those who might build shelters from the storm
Take up their hammers and their Phillips-heads indeed
But what do they seek to pound on and screw
While some new La Llorona festers gestating
Ready to be born into a world made wet with obscene dripping
She will scream as she is born
And her own mother will scream
Again and again
And it may be that we have already heard the pangs of her birth
Ringing in a tritone over
Smaller cries silenced too swiftly
Elliott RWI 
[…] I had thought that I would be among the last when I walked across a somewhat larger but more confined stage close to twenty-five years ago. (I still maintain I shouldn’t’ve done it. Lots of hassle and expense for no real gain and even less comfort.) I had thought that I would leave and not return, and I did leave instructions that I was not to be contacted; I was a bitter young man or older child, and, if I am being honest, I remain far more bitter than I probably ought to be. (There are others, certainly, who have more cause to be more bitter at this point in the year.) […]
LikeLike