Mother, stitch up my shroud
It is merely patches of cloud
that you sew together
with your deft fingers I love

I used to thread your needles
the eye a menace
the thread in my fingers
rough comfort

Like the donkey I petted today
who cried for my touch
I am a fool in my longing
for you who are gone

I am enveloped in vapor
white nothingness
when I dream and I
like this newness

my mouth open like a baby
a pink mewl
a slit in a peach

and you, you are new too


Lucy Simpson, 10/18/2012


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