RE: Mother’s Death
Ah, mother, you went into
the grey mist and I did not wail.
Whatever of my tears your passing earned
had long been spent, you died, for me,
years before, your account was
in arrears, long, long bankrupt.
I let the hens cluck, mother;
I let them feed on my unfeeling.
Hypocrite, I would not be-
I left an empty space
in your macabre parade.
Cuckoo like, were you, my mother,
and I your boomerang egg.