To understand the curl that distance
makes with homesick fingers,

To itch beyond calamine,
cursed out of your name,

By the flat of a shovel
struck into dirt.

Arthritic with weeds that
rash from your mouth,

Your voice staccato,
tattoo of mothers and thistles

Can’t brand deep enough;
you start and end with blood.

Conspirators: qbit, Jilly