by Ashley Ward Rod Long your mother sits silently in the foreground as she hears you weep your eyes out. she has made the kitchen her sanctuary, all faded floral wallpaper and chipped paneling as she boils milk and honey in a forest-green kettle. she laments the fact that she does not know a prayer for this sort of sadness nor spell to end the rains whirling about your bedroom. the dining room table with the worn pastel-yellow runner and half-eaten biscuits is as close as she