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.
