The downward turning touch
the cry of time
fire falling without sound
plunge my hand in the wound
children marching and dying
all that I do is a crime
because I do not reach
their mouths silently crying
my boychild reaches with his mouth
it is easy, being a mother
his skin is tender and soft
kisses stitch us together
we love as long as we may
then come years without kisses
when he will turn away
not to waste breath
when I too will fall
embracing a pillow at night
touching the stone of exile
reaching my hand to death
from: The Mother/Child Papers. Copyright 2009.
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