March 2, 2018Intimate
It’s the closest we have ever been—
slipping my jeans off, sliding into the shower
with my mother, washing the galaxy
of her back scattered with planets.
Once, she carried me behind that tumor,
emptied those breasts into my mouth.
The body remembers something primal.
I dress and feed her, tell her what to do.
She heeds me now.
It is late November. Outside,
three bronze leaves suspend on the ash.
My mother and I lie down, fragrant
with soap, wake with our bodies
spooned as lovers.
from #58 - Winter 2017