Sunday, May 10, 2009

Mother of this blog

Are you the mother of my discipline? Are you
the mother of my disappearing act in books? Are
you the mother of the clothes I wear, the
body I walk around in?

I think so, yes. Are you the mother of the mirror
in the hall today, where sideways at myself I saw
for once your chin there, anchoring my face where
always before it was just Daddy's eyes and neck?

I think so, really. You are, right? the mother of
my silliness, my sleepiness, my strength? You
are, yes? the mother of my mothering, my
arms around my boys?

I know you are. I grew grown-up in bathtubs full
of water you collected, boiled in kettles; I learned
my trade at your elbow, my book-learning from
your books. My mothering from you.

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