I light a candle, and blow out the kitchen match, setting it down on the small table
And I pick it up, sure I won’t burn myself when I see no ember on
The tip, but the tip hugs the wood and
The rest pulls away.
Once my mother said she would never have pity
For some; long unaware decades I didn’t much understand, until now, her
Ferocity. There are
Weeds and wildflowers in my
Windy landscape. If I run out of gas,
So what?
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