The church bell tolls angrily at midnight
The river seeps under your fingernails.
The moon is captured in six dozen
Glass gin bottles hanging from a gutted tree.
Willow trees too old to die
Offer themselves as chaise lounges in emerald.
Faded calico prints dry in the sun made
Harsh by the hate grandmother endured.
Streaks of snow in her knotted hair
She drinks from the silver she gave her name to.
It is not enough to atone for the blood the cups held
She cleans it for the next generation.
Photo by Marcus Lewis on Unsplash
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