Friday, November 25, 2016

Lucy Alexander # 83 Starlight

My mother was made of starlight
distant like music in a dream
straining I hung on her hem
with other things she collected

a brother, a fish from paisley
certain notes from Bach, some alone
some in tandem falling rain-like
the striking chords, piles of them:

We clung and she walked with certain grace
her mood liminal pressed rhythm
her voice the cadence of distance
her hair shone, even when we were young.

Speed is her vehicle of choice
political gestures broad, because when you
come from somewhere beyond the moon
tiny human mites are tragic

or worse, demand your milk
and feast on your decay so many of them
yearning and yearning she felt it in her skin.
When you are made of starlight,
certain things can never be

the press of body to body comfort
or small kisses tainted with crumbs
there whe was, above all that
the light years of her ribs

and the spectre of her arms
so filmy soft and luminescent
that she was barely there

crying ‘Adgietto’, and leaving us behind.


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