your voice dense with your son
who fell into a well, the words 

becoming moth prints, becoming
that near-bone sky, the blue ache 

of the sky, seen from there, 
a kind of window. before his body 

became a bone corset, it was
a pink motel 

against a stormy sky. one could hold
the edges of the birdcage 

of his ribs. we cannot unravel the ropes
of water, empty the body where the blood 

became a koi pond. in your grief
you have become an abandoned lighthouse 

forgetting its own hands. how there
is always a man alone by the sea 

but every water has become
a ghost for you.

here light falls on rye bread, 
we see the geraniums

through a stranger’s window
and your voice 

tells of your son like a hand
emerging from a window 

letting go of a small
dead bird.

Triin Paja is an Estonian, living in a small village in rural Estonia. She writes in various cities, countries, forests, fields, riverbeds. She's interested in silence, plants, moths, and travelling.