It’s almost

November

Entranceway

To a new year

Calcified rage

For days

And occasions

Must confess

My mother

Alone, floods

Me, with her

Brief bright tongue

Composed of tiny embryos

Who look just like me

Pale, thriving sacrifice

An incoherent reminder

That it takes hundreds of years

To rot, by your very own write

Art of living, flesh piece of canvas

Emblematic, perhaps . . .