There’s not a rustle in the garden.
Lucy is looking at the brow of her mom;
Looking for a crease there saying the words mom’s harbouring.
Looking through her salty eyes, listening past her chest’s drums.
Listening past her sobs for comfort
From the voice which had sent her hence:
The flask of food she had to lovingly port
To her uncle who was always funny with his winks.
Looking past her tears for feedback.
That day, the winks became vehement pulls,
And the behemoth with winks rushed her to the back,
So her screams and fighting were vain pitiable tools.
She just let this old cat out of her bag,
From years of pillow tears, shame and disgust.
She’d called her mom aside into where the cricket brags
So her shame might be shared with as few people as must.
The disbelief Lucy saw stung her even deeper,
As she sought a sign to make things better.
But the brow didn’t crease, or change in any manner,
And the silence made Lucy hate herself for bringing up this matter.