Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Mothers

Sometimes,

every woman is my mother,

every one of you is my child.


None of the usual explanations

make sense.

Every thing ends.


You grow out of my chest

I live in your womb.

I lie in your blood.


Only stones separate

from rice

at the parting of fingers


The years pass over us.

We are hay

(who were once flowers)

_

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