A sorrow that feels like a mother
Out of shape, with a little scar
A cool kiss-mark that I wipe
On my way out of the house
Do not stumble, mother. Do not you
Lose your way on your way to us
I love you with childhood, with maturity
With the stubborn memory
Of chipped walls and a crammed room
Where you lived as a bride of waxen wings
Do not laugh when you speak
To us of flight. Do not warn with
A softened voice.

The cloak of your quiet
Leaves a scent in my palms
And the women sense it
The men are lured, they promise
Absolution, and I flee
Like a fly, return like a fly, I cower
In the shadowing absence of word

And it is in all my work. You,
Candle. Bribing the night
For momentary mercy. Do not laugh
When you itch to weep.
Your woolen arms loyal to tear
To fear and defeat. I know a lament
That talks of you

With a swollen lip, its reticence
Brittle as chalk, it bursts as a stifled
Fruit of spite, it eats eats eats you
I hate you with shame, with burning
Flight. I hate you with the sun.
I write all night, I cannot sing
I rob the little sleep of dream
And weep weep weep for you
Then crawling I sink within my blue
And let the morning dove take lead