Seven
It was almost dark
he hadn't come home
a boy of seven
or was it seven o'clock
time to come home
to the feral mother
licking her whiskers
dreaming her quirks,
to the kinked place with no cover
to laughter and danger
singing and strangers
to anger and pain
pushed from within
the mollusk, the nautilus
accreting in increments
a mother of pearl'd shell.
Still she panicked there
in her seventh and safest
most current compartment
when he didn't come home;
cried at the railing
screamed at the traffic
begged each one passing
for news of her boy
have you seen my boy
my wild-smiled boy? I
opened the door
and he was gone.
Seven times seven
and seven years later
it's seven o'clock
almost dark
he hasn't come home.
