sandy.

mother dirt

is a caressive down,

she has no sense of

propriety.

mother air is

a lofty brow

she feels no need

for anonymity.

mother sea,

mother to me,

is a wanton curl

without

fealty.

mother fire,

funeral pyre,

licks away at all our

lunacies.

mothers four,

mothers before

the Time of Men

and the Time of War;

weep they do not,

for they are assured

of their lot;

and their children will

always come as

before.

lost are we, then,

the true and the ‘free’

taxing our mothers for

blood.

judge and rile,

flail and pile, we

shall never understand

the truth of the

flood.

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