SONNET ADDRESSED TO MYJessica MOTHER Plante Mother, as small child, I tugged violets from dirt; they like tiny purple bruises full of anticipation. I stood at the door you couldn’t open wide enough for me. 6PDOO EXW HDUQHVW ,œG ZDWFK \RX EOHQG LQWR \RXU KRXVHZRUN moving from room to room, now and again, the barn door of your chest falling open. Inside there was no heart, just a sculpture of a horse: cold and unsinging. Mother, in the dark, I was there. You thought I was the wind and its idiosyncratic tender caress. I polished and cradled you. My persistence brought that smooth shine to your face. I blew dust from alabaster, carried a piece of you inside my sweater to keep it warm, the dust I disturbed still settling between us.
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