The husked time desiccates.
My mother turns into a stranger,
my father into a human, myself
into a restless dog.
Into the earthy confinement
of a mind in stasis go
these things: the bald,
baleful moon. The dinner table's leitmotif.
The purpling hours-- The disconnect--
And there is more buried
than not. Under the unbearable weight of
waiting, everything gets stored deep.
In this way begins a preemptive strike