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Monday, June 22, 2015

Other Mother's Day



She is almost thirty, and arrives
Here, where waves are sold to tourists,
Ever stronger, ever more sure than



I, who look back, now, most of the time.
She stretches, cat-like, knowing as she does




All time and objects are hers. How am I? I
Lie a little, watching a gull sail off,
Mention the easy sunrise, hiding a limp
Or cough or skip of the heart, or plan for
Shedding of things no longer holding me,
Things my hands once understood, or




Things I knew to say, sing, throw, mold, be.
Here is a shell for Beloved. It's not chipped,
I'll take it to her. I'm a passageway now,
Really a conduit, a path, a test, a mirror.
The young one looks back, smiling.
Yes, I have evidence. I've done well.


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