Aftermath

The sky is deliciously clear,
a hundred white irises stare down on this,
this dilapidated Eden, this night
where the owl rings clear and the smoke billows steady
from corners of an upturned, chill coloured mouth
pouring out those cups of tears I've been carrying for my sisters,
I don't let on the barrel is heavy,
I don't let on I have no second vessel,
instead I sit on the porch and sing
quietly to the Moon
imagining I could still talk to you,
recognising there were so many tears when I could've
that even ten sisters couldn't carry me through
and thankfully those rivers flood less often
now, that's the natural pattern of change.