Mary Kasimor

my mother’s guitar and bread recipes

now the conversation overhears itself
first we exchange bread recipes
and later phone numbers
now I can learn to read
easier than wisdom–it is organic
like eyesight feeling a voluptuous
square squatting next to the circle
another spaced out hour under
the intellect rolling its eyes
I can remember my birth
I was the most
beautiful baby in the nursery
my mother taught me how to read latin novels
I grew taller than grass demanding eyesight and the moon
we drove through the desert the sand shaping
the nature of stems
the locks rusted even though it never rained
the sky forced itself on us
I learned to play the guitar
my mother was rich with sound and silence
she and I grew into an organic shape
understanding every word that I swallowed
my mother agreed to be my mother
growing roots out of her head the connection
of breast to nerve
the foreign uprooting to what I understood
I hated her like myself
she loved me best but she died
and continues floating
in acres of music

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