I called my mom a few times before her death.
I left no message when she did not answer.
Some children would get angry with their mother,
But for what reason was the mystery for me.
You write and write, and think about the writing.
And then you add and subtract, rewrite and edit.
You change lines and reverse stanzas in the midst
Of the feeling. But no one knows what is under
Neath the white. The loss is hard to see but we
Have no problem in feeling the heavy permanence.
We start to think about what was underneath the
White. Before the edits and revisions took over
The body of the thing. What was the rawness of
Words strung together in riffs and ragged runs.
Arrangements be damned. How did it splatter out
To start; all wiggling, bloody and crying, like us?