Anthony Cappo

My mother never forgave my father for
leaving.  But that’s an old story.

Let’s talk about wind ghosting
through the basement, rains

buckling its floor—oil-soaked rags.
On the porch, swarms of pests.

She’d had her left optic nerve
severed, her light halved.

All apertures shrinking, she withdrew,
a weeping cherry macerating

in her tears; pieces
shedding at alarming speed.

All we could offer were words,
words. Nothing worked. 

The house, in sympathy, cast off
its beams. When the last slat

thudded, we gathered
what was left and torched it.