GARAGE SALE by Laure-Anne Bosselaar
I sold her bed for a song.
A song of yearning like an orphanâ€™s.
Or the one knives carve into bread.
But the un-broken bread
song too. For the song that rivers
sing to the ferrymanâ€™s oars. With
that dread in it.
For a threadbare tune: garroted,
chest-choked, cheap. A sparrowâ€™s,
beggarâ€™s, a foghornâ€™s call.
For the kind of song only morning
can slap on love-stained sheets â€”
thatâ€™s what I sold my motherâ€™s
bed for. The one she died in. Sold it
for a song.