I am Her Kind (1/19/17)

  • A short lived
    I've outlived
    her by a mere year.
    Her witching sister
    made it to 46, swathed
    in furs and pearls.

    Beloved Beanpole,
    cat-mouthed babes,
    darling extensions
    of mother lionesses,
    lofty and ambitious
    high priestesses and poets.
    jewel eyed innocents,
    you were loved,
    no question there.
    "The pain
    you woke to was not yours."

    And yet his candle
    is no longer lit.

    When mothers burn,
    how shall children thrive?

    Endurance, measured
    in pulses, is not victory.


    An elegy of sorts for Sylvia, Anne, and Nick.