Broken Statues

to stand on the bare pedestals of an ancient temple
I imagine ...

my mother holding up a hand to her ear
while staring at a hairline

my father’s muscular outstretched arms
trying to convince without any fingers

my proud brother with no ears or nose

my alabaster wife with no arms

a friend with no head or genitals

and last of all, myself, with a full quiver but no bow.

Tristan Moss


If you have any comments on this poem, Tristan Moss  would be pleased to hear them.