Oct 9, 2013

Helen

working draft

My mother, who died yesterday, told only half a story
half a life through muffled sighs -
her English Tea Biscuits
scattered about her crossword puzzles
what was that word - or this
but these are not the words I use - or know

My mother, who would rarely let slip a laugh, or tear
read Whitman - stooped by the bookcase
uncommitted and sheepish
burgundy cardigan held tight
soft raspy tropes whispered this way and that
for no one - it seemed

her jesters abandoned halfway through a triumph
a heartache almost uttered -
never revealed - or hinted at




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