The Ending Is A Sharp Point To How I Was

my mother tells me about the symmetry of the roses
on her own mother’s headstone
how they hold within
that ancient compressed animal
her spirit —
and in the end we are sitting on a bench in the garden
I blunting the silence
seeded between her and my childhood —
the wind snapping the echinacea
the crushed lavender
the mint on our palms


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