GARAGE SALE by Laure-Anne Bosselaar

sold her bed for a song.
A song of yearning like an orphan’s.
Or the one knives carve into bread.

But the un-broken bread
song too. For the song that rivers
sing to the ferryman’s oars. With

that dread in it.
For a threadbare tune: garroted,
chest-choked, cheap. A sparrow’s,

beggar’s, a foghorn’s call.
For the kind of song only morning
can slap on love-stained sheets —

that’s what I sold my mother’s
bed for. The one she died in. Sold it
for a song.

by Laure-Anne Bosselaar

Other poems by 'Laure-Anne Bosselaar'

The Worlds in this World

Filthy Savior

Community Garden

English Flavors

Dinner at the Who’s Who

RtLxBNdMXdF

VReETNqCImiFKcdhnrO

CWlAnsOOFXOlvaKkZ

VTriSGtljNsZfF

UGCIpUDSWVuc

Search Poems
e.g. love, marriage, kids

Popular poems this week

In Silence We Left

The Lost Dances of Cranes

The Author to her Book

Summer Evening

The Lesson

To Mæcenas

A chilly Peace infests the Grass

You Fit Into Me

Still I Rise

Les Lauriers Sont Coupée