After Seventy Years Her kisses are missing. Call 911. My mother, her eyes, are missing, their colour, blue, Precambrian lake blue, that old, that used to a world, in its spin, its rounds around a necessary brightness. The sun is missing. The purple flowers of the Agapanthus lily are missing. Gone seventy years. My mother is lost. Call 911. She wanders from room to room, passes through my father, leaves parts of herself, like smoke from her Buckingham’s. It gathers inside him, holds a blackness from buried years, layer by layer – pressure and heat. My mother is listening in“Richard Osler”

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