to stand on the bare pedestals of an ancient temple
I imagine ...
my mother holding up a hand to her ear
while staring at a hairline
my father’s muscular outstretched arms
trying to convince without any fingers
my proud brother with no ears or nose
my alabaster wife with no arms
a friend with no head or genitals
and last of all, myself, with a full quiver but no bow.
If you have any comments on
this poem, Tristan Moss would be pleased to hear