From "The Story and the Daughters"
Every story began with the same words,
mukashi mukashi aruhi,
and although you did not understand exactly
you knew this was how stories began
and the big pictures translated the rest
as if you were a baby realizing sounds as sounds
that had to be sorted and resorted.
Recollecting the stories mother read to you
you try to locate one that might have prepared you
for loss, a child's loss, even a grown child's loss
of his or her mother. But among the peaches,
foxes, teapots, not one
comforts or echoes what one seeks
when the mother is struck by a car,
killed instantly, before she could open her eyes
and think something is wrong,
my chest is broken, my heart crushed, before she
wondered, where is my breath? |