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by Lois P. Jones

Now that you're gone mother,
your face is an oval
of absence where I fill in
your features—the forest

that was once your eyes
glimmers as if you see through me
as if the earth I dwell in
is only as real

as the connections we inhabit.
I'm still surprised when I hear
your name. I'm still struck
by the way you left this life.

It's taken so long, but I can finally
draw the line from your shoes
to the sky. The grasp of your fist
full of sunflowers.


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