There is the grind of grief and there is also the rising.
Yes
he had a mother too, as everyone does.
What can it mean to have a mother,
to lose a mother, to arrive in
probate court with a mustache.
When I stand beside a river’s wet bank
do I leap in or do I slither.
My mother
would have asked me to lower my voice,
or that’s how I think of her.
Really the last thing she asked
was through gritted teeth:
end it quickly.
As always I was helpless and
for once I followed the rules.
In my dreams she visits
I never remember the context
only
that she was here.
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