We’ve excavated childhood,
littered the lawn with tailings,

peeked into tiny spaces, tried
to process the ore as if that

would answer ragged questions.
Mom beside me, her worn

face scumbled by the moon.
I lean sideways, feel the porch

splinter my skin like a needle
broke his. Once we galloped

through brambles, coaxed
early blackberries to deliver

a sweetness they couldn’t.
How he vanished in his longing.

Richard L. Matta is originally from small town New York and now lives in San Diego, California. When not catering to his golden-doodle dog, he enjoys sailing and being near the water. His poetry has appeared in MacQueen’s Quinterly, Stirring, Gyroscope, ONE ART, Watershed Review, and elsewhere. He was recently nominated for a Pushcart and is an award-winning short form poet. Lanai1492@yahoo.com