Gesture and Omen

Yet you have gone 
to Nunnelly while the country 
is deep in its minuses
and the nurses are dying.
Praise the day you tired 
of crying every reply
and mesmerized feeling. 
I reached out to your children, the one 
in his humming 
apartment who has 
gleaned a raise. His hair 
combed. He will take you
to Ireland when we are again 
free to go. I found 
your daughter 
slipping around 
streets with her palms
out for money or pills and a beach 
nearby hollering 
its rings of inattentive 
water. She says she is scared. 
To listen is to hear 
what her body wants. A place
to shell while you 
are in Nunnelly, which is a place I see 
on the map mostly 
cloudy today and a road 
called Elliott. Are you getting
better? I want this pause 
you are having 
because here
we are in the midst 
of the worst. Outside is 
no cars 
and no mothers. 
A list of sad doorsteps.

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