Thrown at

The crows are pacing
flapping down from the motel roof
to peck at wrappings and french fries
that are wind flung and dumped
in the parking lot of the motel

My godmother
slumped at the bottom of her stairs
liver spots like oil puddles
eyes yellow like parking lot lines
her throat full of withered veins
thick as twisted twigs
swollen
by puddles of 5 dollar vodkas
and entwined by 3 dollar wines
blood flung by Esophageal Varices

The crushed stone crackles
under my boots
blue stones in my hand
are fragments to flick at the
inspecting grackles

“They stay with us.” He said, reflecting.

“I don’t believe,”
I told my father
“that when I die I’ll see my son, or you...or her”

A street light hums itself on for the sunset,
scaring the nested.

“No... they stay with us.”