who’s blank expressions
carefully pick through my intentions.
is drowning in waves of
soft blue fabric,
but they don’t seem to care.
who I assume to be the mother,
carelessly wraps her arm around her husband
who’s arms are lost in the waves of that fabric
his child lays dead in.
the woman’s hand is softly tangled up in the hand of her daughter,
who stares at me with pristine eyes;
they told me her name is “pearl”.