Poem 40

The Death of Jane 
The mother of my mother lives
in a small space just south of here
or would have if not for the fire.
She is the farthest person I know
from the point I am standing
—but she transcends the blackness—
Days after the breath my mother would lament
Sad about (spaces, places, cement)
gave her a first class ticket on the ferry
going nowhere, with no captain.
We were all there to see her off…
I read a nice poem and she smiled
instead of saying goodbye
The mother of my mother calls often
But leaves no messages, we haven’t spoken in years
But she is still my mother’s mother
Still somebody’s mother
—she transcends the blackness—
–ECW
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