this is the needle

It is two in the morning and door after door is shutting in my head. 
If only I had not poured that wine into my mouth,
If only I had not poured and poured and poured and poured. 
If only I could get past all the doors
to the light on the other side of the darkness
under the cliff that stitches the voice of my mother 
to the ground, the blackberries
falling into the bucket.  I lick my fingers
and the voice of my  mother 
sticks to my tongue.  This is the needle
that stitches the silver lining to the cloud, the voice
of my mother.  I call to my daughter
and the silver lining is all around her, all around 
her shining face. 
Oh, it is simply pouring down.    

anna jackson