The Sick Child and Silent the Sun Falls

Devon Brock

The Sick Child

You didn’t see her - behind the door,
but your mother bowed her head
and wept when you left, or

Her white knuckles,
slim clasped when fever took you
down in cold rattled sweats,

as she tamped your forehead
with the one soft rag left in the cupboard -
brought water to your lips.

You didn’t see her -
but she held you, new and wet,
back, before your eyes.

And you never saw late,
when your first love died,
and she held you brief,
she slipped into her room
and cried.

And when you walked away,
on that first day yours,
when the door soft shut,
you mother bowed her head and wept,
for the sick child she once knew when,
is still fevered, still shaking, still blind.

Silent the Sun Falls

Silent where they fell,
spent ash, dog hair, coffee grounds.
Silent as they were when new to use -
for buzz, for warmth, for wake, now
bits of grit to grind down slippers
and vanquished for a pleasure.

Silent where they fell,
old debts dismembered,
chunks of glass that could perhaps
be re-assembled as candy dishes
or ashtrays - maybe porches,
where chew jaws took summer
and low orange breeze.

And the sun fell where it falls,
like threadbare throws, beaters
and rugs, old dogs
chained to trees,
and the red rust Fords
thumped down by the woodpile,
scavenged for parts - silent,
like the giddy knowledge of children,
racing in the torn sprung seats.

Devon Brock

Devon Brock is a writer, linecook and optimistic pessimist living in the middle of nowhere with his wife and dog. He spends much of his time observing bugs and lichen, considering the slow drag of time.

Issue 18
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