March 22

If I should touch her 

She would not feel

But if I gave her gifts from the air

A bit of heaven would be suspected

An articulate bond, oh mother

You warm me with your suttle sun

As I hold my mouth tightly shut

When this life, our life alters

Like a habit, throbbing like a bruise

An audible bruise, imagine this

A hope of flesh, giving itself root

- happy 70th birthday mother I love you


Even when brief visits exclude you

My father, the only one who could

Confuse my blood to much forgetfulness 

Teasing my memory, drinking his vodka

I have loved you, with all my radicalities 

Shading trustingly, where we walked 

Taking your arm, six years younger than mine

Arms of poets, nursing from their mother’s

Heart . . .