first mother’s day without ma

first mother's day without ma
                my face in the mirror, ashen
                               old, like a 
                                             San Joaquin Valley
                                             clapboard barn,
                                             knothole flecked,
                                             termite gnawed,  
                                             shaft light passes through
                                             still dark air illumes only
                                             ornate dust grains hung
                                             between severed planks,
                                             cracked beams that
                                             bow, as grass leaves, parched,
                                             sun burnt, wilt,
 
                                             ripe to kiss
                                                       snug dirt,
                                             to sink in,
                                                       betray.

from American History

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