Who is here with me?
My mother and a dark brown man.
(I am writing this from the past.)
the dark man is not a man, but a statue,
just outside the limits of wood. My mother
is made of mother. She touches the wood
with her eyes, and the eyes of the statue
become her eyes.
(I am not dreaming this. I haven’t been born yet.)
There is a cloud in the sky
where my father sleeps.
When he wakes up he will
want coffee and a smoke.
My mother will set fire to the statue, and
from deep inside her body, I will tell her
to start the coffee.
For even now,
I hear my father’s breathing change.
“My mother is made of mother.” Amazing line.
Thanks. I am always amazed at the work you do on your blog. The natural flow of it. It means a lot to me to get positive feedback from an artist whose work inspires me.