The Florentine Mother

but the world. 

is the obstruction of creation. to exist is to 

perish.

       i light one candle for each ash that skims your body, each day spent 

dreaming about you,

       till my bones muddle with the rain like a gushing stew.

know me:

can’t you feel my motherly breasts? i conjure my mama when i see my skin, a passing

           glimpse of time & body. her forgetful hair falls into the drain. mine is just

as nimble.

           mama & i have the same milky legs, with veins flowing down the scar line.

same set of hands & thighs. 

same bow by the hip; same crook of the nose. same body.

          only 38 years apart.

dare i say it?

i’m scared my cheeks will sallow by the hollow of my chin. mama looks young for her age: she’s only 58. 

freshly blossomed matriarch. she empties her nest.

                          mama,

            your lips are so fleeting:

i see you dissolve into something else entirely.

i see you die every time we talk.

you fold me into the valley of your chest till the sun rises. i see it set in your eyes.