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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Death · #721615
For Son of Slam 3; of love, and profound loss. Chained haikus mushed into stanzas.
When I am seven
my mother covers my hand
and we breathe as one,
woman and daughter
writing verse between doctors
and over them all.

My muse and mother,
made from sheets of poetry
under surgeon pens,
becomes a page turned
in some celestial volume
fluttering, asleep.

Operation dream:
We are creating from clay,
molding homes and hearts.
Our mud women meet
nose to nose, melted by sun,
and then wave goodbye.

I reach for her hand,
signing concepts never named…
autographed copies
of this first printing
of my mother, succumbing
to the editor.

by life, she is hard to hear
in any language.
Her silent mind lifts
and exits the hospital
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