Sons

Somewhere. Out there. Is a son. 

He has her cells. 

He looks through her eyes; he speaks through her mouth with words she taught him to say decades ago. 

Her cells fly across the country as cargo in his bones. Her cells play guitar through the fingers that once fit in the palm of her hand.

Somewhere. In there. Is a mother. 

She has his cells. His cells rumble around in the brain beyond far gone. His cells set up base camp at the base of her spine, resting for a while on the hip. 

Lurking. 

Losing. 

Leaving.