This Town, Empty Nest

There are no children here.
The adults are strangely erotic

in their miseries. This town,
wrecked, solemn, can be named

Longing: un-plucked wild berries
dripping along infinite roadsides.

Longing dreams of honey-buttered
milled bread of a conjured city.

You, familiar with hunger, Come here.
You, with feral memories of wood

and stove and bed, on your leaving,
exhale the poetry of an immigrant

mother, the loneliest of beings.