Mother

weeping anabaptist

You were beautiful to me. Your hands,

especially. I would run my finger

over your veins to watch for myself

how the blood ran through you.

I could see your bones, your skin soft

and translucent. You drifted through me

like that, invisible as air. I went to my room

to play alone on the blue carpet

while you wept somewhere in the house

behind a shut door.

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