They are tall —
these things that cramp
our necks: the cranes,
the mountain, the scraper,
the bowling sky. My mother
was taller than I.

My neck still aches
when I behold her,
still, in her way
of carrying bread
to the table;

Still, in her way
to the polished stone,
where she, knowing less,
offered her children
up to the sun;

Still, in her way
of lowering, parcel
upon box — herself,
then down, down upon
the bones of the man
she once adored.

Mountains must rise from this,
and sometimes too — the cranes.

Image: Paweł Czerwiński on Unsplash

2 Thoughts

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