beside the phone, there silently sits
my mother’s bones of wax, they sing
in drags of nymphal stutters.
they utter a spread of shamrock-shaded
verses entangled with hemlock
and elegant leaves united as wreaths
of an aromatic coronet.
this corporeal crown adorns her halo
and the rings that may come, met synaptic response.
my mother’s voice, as i’ll always remember
as a laureate recites in my mind,
weaving poems that told vaguely,
how she cares, sometimes hinting
of a metaphor there as a wedge thrown amidst
conversations she never thought i wanted.
but she was wrong, as i have been, i believe
her greatest admirer, though i doubt if she noticed.
i was speaking to her in the off-point ways
of the language and syntax i’ve learned
through the years, attempting her craft,
wishing mine would be closer to hers.

— A. P.

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