A Mother

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mine took charge

she ran the preschool office

kept the accounts, did taxes

organized the family social life

cooked fabulous meals for guests

dressed in a sari

when no one else did,

(unless you were from India)

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she told me about birth,

demonstrating with a rubber band

she gave me her opinion on

contraceptive methods

she discouraged me from cheerleading

encouraged me to learn guitar

sent me off to summer school at college

instead of summer camp

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she was emotionally distant

deferred to my father’s needs

never stopped smoking

during breast cancer

shriveled up and passed away

while passing on her wanderlust,

passion for Durrell and forties swing

her eyebrows

and her pen

Mother

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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.

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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.

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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.