Carol Casey
Mother Salt I searched the soft places for my mother. She was not there. I found her in the raw the bleeding places where high and bitter winds blow wounds open. She was busy being salt probing and stinging and could not comfort me. I found her in my DNAa misplaced phantom jumping out to startle future generations, an astringent puckering at the edges of my complacency drying up the wetlands of my tears with love so deep that none of this can touch it. 58 |
antilang. no. 7
