Epitaph as My Mother’s Daughter
There is no beach
that is not my mother. There are no stars
that are not unshaken disasters, no disasters
that aren’t unlatched stars. Waves
deploy like her fists. This is where it comes from,
this rhythm of falling that breaks
into less than cosmetic parts.
There is no lipstick on the wind. In the air
on the wind. She never hit me hard enough
to break my face. We blow forward,
we break forward. I’m sorry, the world
makes more sense without her.
