Names Forged in Ash and Shadow
— free verse
Mama says the dead bird in the cold fireplace
is bad luck, an omen wrapped in feathers
and ash.
We cling to the remnants of a past
scattered across broken glass and peeling walls,
each shard of history slicing through the cold,
our breaths mingling with the smoke
from the landlord’s crumpled pack.
In the chill of the hallway,
the landlord’s gaze lingers
like a shadow on Mama’s new, bright red hair,
while Ava and I, the stringy stray dogs,
poke at the outside world,
our fingers tracing the promises of warmth
from a window half-shattered.
The backyard is a field of memory
overgrown and untamed,
a clothesline hanging,
empty and silent,
like the echoes of Daddy’s laughter
as he chased Mama with that frayed rope,
his boxer shorts dancing in the wind
like ghostly banners.
