Motherless World
My child self
Learns an orphan’s truth
And rages against the
triviality of afternoon
errands and a speeding
Truck. A shocked
Violence upon frailty.
Touch is an inchoate
Language of veneration and
Loss is flat moonstone
without hand-holds; there is
no nestle-place to comfort
A penitent. Death
Is silent concierge of
Empty rooms and my
Descent into mother-less-ness
Is a rattle of mourning
whose dark enormity
shades into new identity. Sun
Spots appear in the
Glare of snow.