Poet#1 - "Untitled"

When I think of my mother
She is all angles.
Sharp words echoing
From the mask on her face
The frame of hard eyes, flat
No shine
Empty wells somewhere deep inside
Razor blade cheeks
Strong forehead
I think of her hands
Thin, wide, strong
Hands for working, for rebuking
Unapologetic hands.
Rail-thin, she was
But well-made
Ribs like a linebacker
Not easily broken, my mother.
Wide, and flat:
An uncrossable gulch.
She worked hard, my mother,
But she never loved.







The End

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