Summer 2014: Poetry
Mother of the Drowned Child
by Penelope Scambly Schott
Today in her rusty truck she drives on the frozen canal. She has no words to give me even when I ask, How dark is that dark? Funny thing is, I already know. Watch how I clench my fists, how yesterday and tomorrow unclasp hands, how Crow who crazes the ice is exactly the black of silt, how this woman holds silence in her upturned palms.
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