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by Rhina P. Espaillat
She still remembers me, she strokes my face.
She made me in her body's deepest place
and fed me from herself. I was her moon.
I comb her hair and feed her with a spoon
and dress her in clean clothes. She understands;
she pats her empty purse with eager hands
and walks about the grounds with me. She knows
but cannot always say this is a rose.
The words she taught me are the shapes I see:
because she spoke the sun, it came to be;
she called me out of nothing, and I came.
Will I still be when she forgets my name?
(from Lapsing to Grace, Rhina P. Espaillat)