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It could be our baby. Her eyebrow, its perfect arc, the pale blue vein.

Even in death, my mother had to make things difficult for me.

It was here—over the highway—where my mother got confused.

My daughter swallows arrows of sunlight on her way to the grave.

Now he was all out of dreams, out of rage, expectations, and money too.

The fog’s sheen is a mirror: my mother sees the terrain of the future—

This kind of childhood stuck with a person, twisted things up.

He was so frail, how could your heart not break when you saw him?

How can we go on believing each day won’t be the one that flames out?

He was getting a divorce. I was married with two teenage children.

I say aria, scale of the day, weigh each square foot she’s kept up.

Did Sharon and Roy make it harder or easier for their mother to leave?

Death is our common ancestor. It doesn’t care who we have dined with.

My mother taught me to rebel within the boundaries of acceptability.

she thrust to where her gut bucked acid & gave out a taurine heave

I see now that motherhood is not required to speak a mother tongue.

He smelled like the bars my mother took me to in the middle of the day.

The purple-eyed women on her mom’s side began generations ago.

I reviewed the rules for myself, among them: stay in the moment.

My mother hoped moving would erase the affair with a married man.

I used to be known for the humor of my music, the lightness of touch.

Every life is an imperfect continuation of another.

Here I am, king of the gods, making a fool of myself just to get under your gown.

She had boyfriends before she met him. Well, not really boyfriends.

I was once a rider of mastodons, a waitress showing skin.

She holds her smile like a note sustained at the end of a phrase.

My head was muffled in velvet, my body exposed in an old slip.

I played a game I called ocean, resisted my need for air.

No one asked that, changed as he was, he do more than survive.