ruby / ebony stone.
When I was six
I wanted to be one,
begged my mother to
make me a shell.
She found red
padding, sewed
enough circles to
match my age.
The black spots grew,
became unclean windows.
We can’t look out to
a view any more.
Too much is dying:
the field at the back
of our house is sprayed
and the weeds lie down
and the crickets write sad
songs they can’t sing.
We won’t see her turn,
her actions too small;
ours too big.
K. S. Moore is the author of ‘What frost does under a crescent moon’— The Seventh Quarry Press. She was selected for Poetry Ireland Introductions, placed third in the Waterford Poetry Prize and received a Pushcart Prize nomination.
Work has recently been published by Arlen House and Black Cat Poetry Press. Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, YouTube: @ksmoorepoet
More work by K.S. Moore
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