Untitled, for my mother

For my mother, who never once

turned around, picked up the rock,

and threw it back.




I understood my mother today,

at least an aspect of her,

her happiness, her determination

which for many years I watched,

hot, gnawing my bones

jackal-like and slit-eyed,

from a distance.

How could she?


This: she refused,

like each living thing,

was simply incapable

of walking towards sure

defeat, of perishing




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