when rich died in '97
my mother cried
next to the dishwasher
open, dripping

my family's bones are
holding up porcelain
like daily, sorrow
fills our bowls,

and the resurrection
is respiring
in steam between
plastic vents.

when caleb moved away
i cried and it made
the cover of my
childhood as a magazine

i went to assisi
no less worn than
glossy pages
buried 15 years

and in 60 will be
dead as if three churches
buried my blue eyes
into limestone.

water washes bedrock
in the darkness of the world;
caleb, i've grown up
with grooves in my soul.