Thursday, December 27, 2012

For A Time My Mother by Melissa Fry Beasley

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My mother spent the summer locked away in a strange place.
Root wrapped and holding
But we could not be certain for how long.
She wasn't so unique in her occasional ineptitude.
She used to walk barefoot from town to town searching,
Until she had turned every corner and run into herself.
Just like a dog can smell fear,
She could sense the indifference,
Confusion of memory and imagination.
She remembered humble beginnings among dirt and stone but
We are never the same person twice.
She was buried in loss,
Leaving only quiet desperation.
Staring in dumb silence,
We expected that past predicted the future.
So many elusive and subtle masters that enslave us.
Preserve your illusion because only the dead speak truth in this place.
We are all beggars,
Each in our own way,
Always an incompleteness somewhere.
Remember that nature is well suited for weakness,
And our skeletons aren't to be distinguished from our ancestors.

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