i
All our mothers must die,
wading away
in the
perplexing waters
of perpetual time.
Knotty contrivances to hang
onto them
prove inadequate, and we’re
left only with those hollow
condolences
memory affords us,
amounting to cold comfort.
ii
All our mothers must die,
rising to heights we
can never
divine and taking on
enormity
we couldn’t see when
they were suburban ladies
in capris and pink tank tops
and not these many-armed,
indigo goddesses
representing at once
everything they embodied in life.