This tough knot of flesh
is no pillow, this bone case
no towel.  My hands do
the work they are given,
and the road back
from home into nightfall
still beckons my feet.

But can this be the morning?
This brash adolescent
who mocks me. 
           
    Are these
    eyepits eyes? 
           
    Ah, Mother,
    where are you now?
           
I am forty eight
years old and ashamed to tell you
that I still want to bury my face
and cry on your breast.

Lizard’s eye, gather me in. 
Night, let me go down easy. 
Dry hills, drifting like ships
through invisible shadows,
carry me off in a cool trace of wind

    blowing over the sage
    into rainfall at last.

 

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