santos scribes

she tells us you were my father once
in a different lifetime; the 1400s
that you found me in a basket,
our family business, a printing press
this all feels mostly true
except you father me now too,
here; in 2023
just yesterday

mother,
there is a charge that rings round this word
for me
an emptiness revisits
each time
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ i call you
the one thing you couldn’t ever possibly be,
my mother

hours
collect;
like the bulbed bottom of an empty hourglass
just after the white sand has been let through
a certain death awaits each day.
i’m caught here
in the messy free fall; an avalanche of hours.