Two diary entries, diction in parallel.
We must be new translations of two infidelities.
The mother still two “we’s” in both loss and realization
because we are (figuratively) dying
from start to finish: We begin with
tears and poverty, her nose “a weapon.”
We are told
courageous
sentiment,
someone else’s voice, but graduate
discouraged and unknown to her event.
Whether she has contributed feeling to it, she creates body, now gushing, now slowing
joining Daddy, severing eyes and ears;
we thought we were not capable of
needs, wants, to live as a poet. In that way, she re-be-comes
the setting sun,
annihilates
the rules.
