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Washing My Mother's Back
by Sharon Auberle

My mother does not revel
in excess pleasure.
She sleeps in a narrow bed.
Her food is sparse,
she drinks no wine,
at eighty-two
her body is honed
of every excess inch or process,
yet I am surprised by sudden joy
rippling beneath my hands
over the tender bow of neck,
down the white-lathered curve of spine
into that naked place
where pleasures live
unforgotten
and swans sing
their final song.

 


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