The child curls inward
at the edge of the room,
breath rocking the dark,
learning silence.
Where is Father, where is Mother?
Working, the walls say.
They will come with night.
Father, Mother—
where have you gone?
Hush now.
Time is only waiting.
All will be well.
—
For a month we drift
toward a warmer latitude.
The air sticks to the skin.
Sleep splits open—
a giant leans through plaster,
coffins loosen their teeth,
goblins gather where lamps fail.
Where is Father, where is Mother?
Father is always in motion.
Mother bends the day into bread.
—
For days we rise
into cold air,
crossing white distances.
My room draws closer,
tightens its grip.
Where are you now?
Father burns beneath a spotlight.
Mother works the hours thin.
—
Where is Father, where is Mother?
They return to the sunlit place.
You remain.
This will be called
a future.
—
My life unwinds
along a crooked thread.
—
Where is Father, where is Mother?
They come back through the cold.
Each of us learns
the grammar of separation.
—
Where is Father, where is Mother?
Father keeps moving,
a body harnessed to applause.
Mother holds the household
together with her hands.
—
Father was meant to stop,
to stand beside Mother—
but Santa Muerte steps forward,
quiet and exact.
Questions scatter.
None return.
His mourners shape the farewell;
we stand inside the brightness,
unvoiced.
Mother waits
in the antechamber of bones and prayer.
I sit with her there
until the door opens.
—
Mother—
I spoke my leaving.
Father—
with you,
the words stayed behind.
—
Father,
even now
my mouth is full
of what I never said.
Wat voor geluid maakt zo’n ding eigenlijk?
Dreamquest 
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