etched in the sky
the void between the branches
and the outcropping of trees
the vibrant bands of colored birds
migrating around the lake
over the last few thousand years
he had a way of making words work against you
a row at lunch i’ve never quite forgotten
provocation and accusation ala carte and served ice cold
and waiting for the check
a shattered glass singing
still stinging
sinking in and sticking out of my palm
now a name and two dates
merely scratches
on a slab of stone
his words
echoed and etched upon me
he had a way of making words work against you.