One Evening, Years Later

I see the body of my mother over the horizon
expansive finally as sky, a giant
Henry Moore-like figure stretching out
in cloud. No, more like Matisse — languorous,
reclining, arms thrown overhead. I’ve never seen her
so relaxed. She is done with bones and clothes,
her breasts her own, her belly floating. She is like a woman
who’s had her way with the world and rolled over
for a final cigarette in the blue
of the not-world —

and the earth itself,
small and complete beside her. As if
she gave birth to it. As if
it will be fine without her.

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