your voice dense with your son
who fell into a well, the words
becoming moth prints, becoming
that near-bone sky, the blue ache
of the sky, seen from there,
a kind of window. before his body
became a bone corset, it was
a pink motel
against a stormy sky. one could hold
the edges of the birdcage
of his ribs. we cannot unravel the ropes
of water, empty the body where the blood
became a koi pond. in your grief
you have become an abandoned lighthouse
forgetting its own hands. how there
is always a man alone by the sea
but every water has become
a ghost for you.
here light falls on rye bread,
we see the geraniums
through a stranger’s window
and your voice
tells of your son like a hand
emerging from a window
letting go of a small
Triin Paja is an Estonian, living in a small village in rural Estonia. She writes in various cities, countries, forests, fields, riverbeds. She's interested in silence, plants, moths, and travelling.
My father sexually abused me.
When I got married,
I hyphenated my name.
No one questioned it at the time.
But in the middle of my parents’ late divorce,
everyone wants to know about names.
i was depressed,
and i wanted
to take a
you said you'd join me—
didn't mean i wanted
netflix and chill,
it happened before words came
to tell me how to feel about it
newly connected neurons torn apart
forever firing blanks into the microbiological air