- Vol. 03
- Chapter 04
I clasp my mother's image to my breast, pin it to the mourning ground of a rickrack yoke. He holds her in the barn, rakes up memories brittle as straw, forks them over, pitches them up, ricks them into a gold dust chapel.
Lord knows, I tried to carve him some relief but his grief is tempered hard, sharp as tines, he wears it in the lines of his buttoned-up shirt, the steely set of his jaw, the torn lapel of his coat. But I carry the ghost of her in my bearing,
it is I, in the blind-drawn gloom, I against the tracery, the wedding lace curtain, the dead-spit behind shuttered slats, it is I who haunts him, a pale silhouette, a likeness passed on, a cameo to catch at the throat.