‘an orange plastic basket of compost / down from the top of the garden – sweet dark, / fibrous rot, promising’
I’m carrying an orange plastic basket of compost
down from the top of the garden – sweet dark,
fibrous rot, promising – when the light changes
as if someone’s flipped a switch that does
what? Reverses the day. Leaves chorusing,
dizzy. And then my mother says
– she’s been gone more than thirty years,
not her voice, the voice of her in me –
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