She started by dropping the i
and stretching the hiss
which she would halt with a punch
of tongue to teeth for a hard t.
I swear,
it sounded just
like the flight of arrows
in those old westerns
Dad would watch:
feather, shaft, and flint
finding
leather, bark, or bone.
But Mom would turn her head
to the side and down
to release it harmlessly
to the ground.
After so many battles won
or lost—really, who can tell
the difference in the war
of loving and raising?—
she lost the t, too:
breath through teeth became
the wind through trees,
just the hush after shots fired—
her quiver empty.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 4.
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