Let us now contemplate the anger of our sons. Dear mothers, the time is past. The house will have to stand. Love and understanding go out the window . Objects can’t teach. It is too late for sectional couches. The home is only good for slamming doors. O, it is time enough for the unraising. Yet remember sunny days of hard work and machinery. How yellow wants to be happy. But yellow doesn’t need it, depending on the air in the room. How you unsay it again, once and for all, a final time. You may choose bloodshot, for all you care, a color that cannot be inhabited. You, the unbuilder, put down your trowel; you are done scrabbling for stone. Dear mothers, do not confess to everything. Sadness is the light in the room. Unsaid, a third person, interrupts all conversation, casting words farther away from their meaning. And so it has come to pass. The unforgiving shall deliver the unrepentant. The unfeeling shall beget the unreformed.

© Tori Grant Welhouse