She/Me
Why is it that I'm missing my mother
Far more palpably, plaintively, passionately, painfully
Than I've missed my dad, my father, Saul, "Ampy," "Mr. Dog"?
Why is it that he, having made his way heavenward years ago,
Doesn't fill my longing with such utter loss, absence, emptiness?
Could it be that it has everything to do with the crucial truth
That I spent my first nine months
Letting the contours of my mother's sheltering womb
Shape my existence, mold my emotions, meld my imagination and soul —
She who breathed life into me, me into life,
Suckled me, at her smooth, comforting breast,
Nourished me, with the sweet milk of her artistic sensibility,
Never censured me for daring to be different, iconoclastic, me,
Nurtured my hunger, my thirst, for inviting risk . . .
All the things she'd wished to accomplish but never quite could?
10/19/11 - (3)
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