THE FIELD ON A CRACKED PALM OF THE HAND

An abandoned childhood home,
Still filled with the scent of cornbread
And the ethereal steps of a heartless motherhood,

The music box, found in the corner of the room,
Full of Mozart and scars,
An old cabinet
With drawers for storing
Always freshly harvested frost,

All of that,
And the rare watermark of her father's eye
In invisible aquarelle,
Forced her to freeze her heart
And clench her fist,
Preventing memories from spilling over her soul
Like the endless field
On a cracked palm of the hand.