a message to my mother
in her native tongue
her vessel received
but longings chased deeper
where angst and ritual fears conformed now
the length of her stretching limbs
familiar, too, as the rehearsed holding pattern of her soul
knowing she could solo, to where partnered cups runneth over
escaping ghosts of endings Grimm
if she only could see where to land
instead of waiting for the impact
by lmks, 11/03/04, in the 2 something a.m.
