Everything is clashing,
blame it on the moon.
The death of everything
was the death of the moon.
Thirsty for night,
clouds mocked the sun at twilight.
Strange eyes had scared his father back in.
We raised our fists together,
loving between the seams he’s ripped
and mending the night with fear.
Transmuting flesh with fire and memory with ash
our backs together, crowding.
Mere mortal, tender son and mother of angered heart-
bitten the nails of cold until sleep.
Quiet in the morning
through the rustle and part.
Dethroned his rampage- the written word
benighted his steady clamor
with a dead-silent hand.
©2012 Jessica Stephenson All Rights Reserved