Four Letters

You held my mother's name—
the secrets I never knew
a few letters could hold—
& I know I've let you down.

The phone grew bat wings—
it's holed up in the attic
in between candy insulation
& a beam with a rope
where I've thought about
myself & innocence.

The crows have just returned—
one wing less &
screaming for a future
but I cannot make the call.

I've failed you in a deep way—
left a piece of soul
like clothing on your line
& I cannot face
the time zone between us.

The line grew barbed wire—
I'm too afraid of
the grief of stitches,
of seeing my dog as a ragdoll
& it's too late for both.

I've left you out with snow
& when I should be
holding your hand
a scrap of shrapnel is
in your palm—
you're holy & I cannot face
letting myself cry
for all the misery
I keep in my back pocket.