The broken backs of woman
who watched silently each
Spring as the children sprouted
like weeds on the prairie.

They were twins split
apart by lighting and
bad fathers. With each sound
laughter forgot its
Namesake. The life of
Fire.

Tender now stories held
in bad bones, marrow evaporates
from the thirst of light
consumed. The dry mouth
of aging.

Lost form and skin that feels
like dust. They learn to speak
On death beds, the only safety
She knew.

“Go outside, my child,
Before you forget your name.”