Читать книгу The Do-Over - Kathleen Ossip - Страница 10

Mother’s Day

I had no mother, I required none.

I believed in mothers like I believed in the pyramids.

They were complicated too. Monumental but hollow. Dusty but beautiful. Mathematical and confusing. Birth, I believed,

was the brilliant upheaval. Now I see Death is another.

When I think of mother,

you are the image I think of, like a sun. I mean that

I’m not supposed to make friends in a poem, which should be mathematical and confusing. You are not my mother. I required none. You are a friend who couldn’t help but mother

and now a mass blocks the sun. I want to take your kindness and put it in my hair.

The image is dead! Long live the sensation.