My Mothers (Section 5, p69)
I water the windowsill’s blue morning glories and
cover myself with cool linen.
An evening wind sweeps by — at the forest’s edge,
the clover field ignites. Half the sky blazes.
Suddenly books fall open at forbidden pages: unknown
fraudsters, hypocrites, and lunatics don’t share me.
Hundreds of graves burst by overgrown roads.
From brier rose hips, blood drips — suffused with malice.
I must open the iron gate:
They are all here.
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