*

*

The first time I tried to write

about my mother,

the words exploded like grenades

all over the white paper field.

Pieces of A’s and T’s,

dead blackbirds on snow.

*

The second time I tried to write

about my mother,

the pen skidded away

as if skating on ice,

leaving slices

of purple bruised chasms,

with swift, deadly water below.

*

The third time I tried to write

about my mother,

the pen struggled through drifts

of burning white, windblown sand,

bleached bones of words unsaid,

questions unasked,

too hot to touch,

and too late,

too late,

too late.