With no words a child knows
to open their mouth to say “more”

On Sundays we’re taught to close
our mouths and pray more.

On Friday I got your call
it clicked the calling.

Past me, Future me
they were quickly becoming

I became the engine that filled the sky
with smoke. A mantra became my pillow
and then my blindfold.

Past me, Future me
all they wanted was more

My feet raced towards Father Time
but our time was cut short.

You wore sacrifice as a cloak to muffle
your pleading. Until the end, then as a child
you were reaching—for three words

I no longer get to say.