Jessie

When did I start crying, was going back to Ireland, when my son asked why, Nana loved the horses, you who poured sand, on that altered discourse, like the ferry glides, over how my life crammed, to anchor in his smiles, he says Nana is forlorn, a martyr to her son, did she ever dawn, you were the one who lied, tales somehow run aground, the way he died, all through these storms, i am masking wounds, troubled notwithstanfing, he wasn't done.