AUSTIN SEGREST

The Present

Silence, a swallow
stuck in the throat,
centers on outstretched
hands: they hold
a small, checkered pillow
(starred by a slight
imprint) where
the coal of a thumb
rests—my mother’s.
It’s all that’s left
from the plane crash.

What lengths of light,
what loopholes
and longitudes
of sound and time
have bent this thumb,
scurrying in its halo
of flame to reenter
here, home, lighting
on this pillow,
extending this gesture
of care, this caress.  

   Contributor’s notes