Poem of the Week

I’ve always preferred Cain.

His angry
loneliness, his
lack of his mother’s
love, his Christian
sarcasm: “Am I
my brother’s keeper?”
asks his brother’s murderer.

Aren’t we indeed
the keepers of our dead?

Let me start again:

I prefer apples that roll
far from the tree.

Dry like a twig
is umbilical cord, tucked between legs.

How did they cut it, Cain? With

a stone?

Under Criminal Record
write, “Mother, home.”
Under Weapon
write, “Mother, home.”