My Sister Verdi Cries Poem by gregory collins

her tongue holds her down inside her head,
it's as if she might cry cause the rain has ended in heaven

and i drag myself along with a patriotic sound.
the way the knees call the faithful these chains

and i don't mean to hurt you by rattling my bones.
but the world outside this room is no city of angels;

our little world making soldiers out of someone's eyes.
our little world holding my last breath.
our little world allowing children to give grandchildren away

and i've seen the coming and going
from the cradle to the bleeding daylight of the grave

and sometimes our values cook all night long without knowing it.
sometimes i remember the day i stopped dreaming

and now the little birds don't kick me out of their songs.
now i am celebrating at sunset in a house made of crickets.