ABSTRACT
for many years – more than those lived – (more now by far) - I have thought on her - her who was called my mother. And in the hollow thrum of the pulse I have nearly always drowned. Not that this is not love. It is not never love. That is not it. No, not that at all. In this case, take love as an iron given, bond of interminable and deadly play the totalised presence of utter absence - an unfree state. No. What it is. After all these years (of asking what) - it is that I want - her not just here with me, for always here, (for we grow old and ill and people die). No. I want her out there, in diadem - bejewelled nocturnal array Burnished. A shining star. In which situation, I can - be somewhat apart - and can wipe the tears with the end of my sleeve and nudge my neighbour (seated also) and say :- “See her, her over there - she who’s not me - that’s my mother. Isn’t it a fine thing.”
