The Writer
Fancy that...
Being able to spend the whole morning
Writing a poem!
My mother's hands
Were etched in a network of tiny cracks.
Salt of the earth, the doctor said.
She thought it meant he loved her.
It doesn't matter whether
I write or not, I said...
Well, on one level it does,
Words whirling away into empty space.
A false Spring hangs in the air;
It's hard to keep from donning summer clothes.
He killed himself when he'd killed his wife.
(The tumor was malignant)
And the child sent away to some sister.
But his kind hands...My mother
Whispers again to believe it.
The typewriter clatters in a small room,
Closed door,
Soft light through the figured glass.
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