The mother is a weapon you load
yourself into, little bullet.
The mother is glass through which
you see, in excruciating detail, yourself.
The mother is landscape.
See how she thinks of a tree
and fills a forest with the repeated thought.
Before the invention of cursive
the mother is manuscript.
The mother is sky.
See how she wears a shawl of starlings,
how she pulls the thrumming around her shoulders.
The mother is a prism.
The mother is a gun.
See how light passes through her.
See how she fires.
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