PoetryEtc Featured Poet: Liz Kirby

A mother struggling for ironies. Orange markers
planted by the roadside. Stubby toes
crammed into steel-capped boots. Snapshots of babies
melting snow smattering the lens. The sour
of sicked up milk. The stain on his shirt front.

Does anyone remember anything more
about the night the children played football
for some kind of trophy? Rain fell into the river.
We stood in the meadow, our blood
crackled before us and cracked open.

Men who could not read took away our papers
sent us on down the only road. I have visited everything
in my search for the border. In this tireless attempt
to form words out of the lip's twist and splutter.
The road has worn out, it will no longer carry us.