moving mom

by Dan Campbell

i stand sick with the ripples
fracturing out from this null point.
the i of the storm counts silences,
howling wracked shards.

seven years. every time, seven years--
seven times seven in desolation--
every time, i help her move her mirror.

i dream of a house at night,
and a dark hallway, a candled room.
i dream of her here, combing her hair--
it cracks, and she is there, talking to no one.

seven years. every time, seven years--
seven lives frozen in the gorgon's lair--
every time, a piece of me goes missing.

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Dan Campbell is a native of nowhere in particular, but is most often at home in the middle of North Carolina with his wife and two daughters. His poetry has appeared in The Charlotte Poetry Review, The Archive, and the British Druid Order's poetry collection Blue Green Tapestry. He is the poetry editor for Bull Spec and ruminates on reading and writing at http://art-ungulate.livejournal.com/.

Photography: La Madre Muerta, by Xavier Luque.