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The Sea
My mother sings softly
as she hangs the laundry
on the line
sings of the colors of the ocean
crystalline; more precious than any gem
sings of God
in the sea, in our eyes
washing up along the shoreline
the colors of seaglass
My mother sobs softly
as she washes the big bay windows
scrubbing fiercely at the spots that are already gone
sobs over the aching in her bones
the looming, black years; alone
sobs over the loss of her own miscarried desire
I tell her she is a good mother
she does not hear
My mother won't get out of bed
Oh where has she gone
I've lost her to the sirens
in her head
Wake up, wake up
I'll sing of the Sea, of God
I'll sob for you, with you
My mother
who will always wander the coastline
mournfully wailing for her lost little flower
bloomed from her own stem
bloomed dried and dead
her moans so meloncholy
I could swear she was singing again.
as she hangs the laundry
on the line
sings of the colors of the ocean
crystalline; more precious than any gem
sings of God
in the sea, in our eyes
washing up along the shoreline
the colors of seaglass
My mother sobs softly
as she washes the big bay windows
scrubbing fiercely at the spots that are already gone
sobs over the aching in her bones
the looming, black years; alone
sobs over the loss of her own miscarried desire
I tell her she is a good mother
she does not hear
My mother won't get out of bed
Oh where has she gone
I've lost her to the sirens
in her head
Wake up, wake up
I'll sing of the Sea, of God
I'll sob for you, with you
My mother
who will always wander the coastline
mournfully wailing for her lost little flower
bloomed from her own stem
bloomed dried and dead
her moans so meloncholy
I could swear she was singing again.
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