Tears congregate
as I hear your voice turn
from now to another
scene (of bricks and river)
you call down by the factory
where you're locked in.
You call the cast bracing
your broken wrist, this new change, piecework
that lies heavy and limits
your ability to eat
or steer the steel walker
they once allowed. I cry Mom
and there is no response.
I pronounce Mari' an
stressing the Mary in your name,
beseeching the girl
who birthed a king in a limestone cave
to lift this veil between us.
You lean toward me
and whisper, I've a daughter
who lives in a house
near trees.
She can turn the brass doorknob
without being watched.
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