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Her sidewalk chalk,

her humble cries– and stone-grey eyes,

soft lips that talked once:

now too chapped to break the crusted muck.

She writes all along the concrete,

up until that mossy crack near the street where daddy said not to cross,

pouring out her willing, living heart;

pumping red dust out onto the stone, and green dust towards her home,

she draws and draws and cries and cries, but mother’s inside,

cooking on the stove just to breath in the steam for a second more,

to take in a few more thickly scented trails of smoke,

before she crawls back to bed

to wait for the rain to cease its thumping,

so she can read those chalky poems her daughter wrote—smeared on the concrete floor,

and fulfill at least one promise before she’s too red-eyed and tired to offer ears to her little girl:

outside writing on the concrete,

offering dusty words to the dead gods she once believed in−

to the dead stars she once saw, and to the brittle, glass eyes that once beheld her art.

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~ by ardentbowel on March 5, 2013.

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