lydia’s face a purple kite
above lakeside olive
groves by the lake
of the dead open
to eclipse
waiting on her sons wears their absence as
a necklace
laugh at what
what to laugh to what
to laugh
what laugh what is there to laugh
about
back at home
she’ll wind a clock
from the judgment
realm tick away
her pain in step
with footfalls
under the
floorboards
