Imaging My Mother
Like all boys,
I imagined her breasts,
wondered about roundness,
occasionally saw cleavage, but she
was a busty woman, in a womanly
way, and that’s just hard to hide. I say
that to foreground how far I stooped.
Death would not stoop for me,
so I stooped for it while it stopped
for her. My mother. And
above her, her mother, photographed smiling,
hand on the fence, waiting I imagine
in the freshly swept yard for her
little one—so little
now—even my finger obscura
in front of
the shameless lens almost
takes her away.
Imaging My Mother
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