(work in progress)
My Mother’s Desk
My mother’s desk contains remains behest
and left unturned:
a concentrated turquoise Quink;
a fountain of ancestral prose,
its oak re-turned by shapes of elbowed woes, ingrained as pain was softened, shaped to narratives that yearned to reach a whisper’s speech, pale-blue, light as air-mail’s flight,
ocean’s drift,
kiss-wished and since ribbon-wrapped,
kinder memories.
Cherry Coombe 