sit down and talk.

and while we talk,

we are going to see

the world in each 

other's eyes,

and miss the center,

miss the core, miss the spirit

of each other's air and soil.

we will talk of our mothers,

and our fathers, though

they were not half

as great as the women

who traveled with us,

and fed us, and loved us,

and cursed us.

mother, who killed us

after creating this

mess of a masterpiece,

seen only in her eyes.

she did not see 

our world in our eyes

which held for her soul

her world, her air, soil, 

while father smiled

and thought about youth,

about his great woman,

in black and gray, slim

and perfectly mature,

her hair softly frozen,

her eyes worn and opaque,

her dress, not new, 

but new enough

for him. himself a father,

now and now, a father

of other children sinking 

their eyes (with their worlds)

in the landscapes

of their woman. she and she,

all one, and only she,

there is really no other.

mother, the curse (yours,

now mine) is lovely,

when you traveled with me,

and fainted, and fell,

(you managed to cry before

your mind slipped)

and sent me fear 

of life, future, death and past.

you have given it to me, all--

my inheritance, heavier

than gold, 

though just as useless--

all and more

than our eyes could ever,

ever hold.