First Gurus

My mother’s wrists

all vein and tawn

retaining the dawn of youth

in their tender slender bend

Her

forearms of fawn

And I’m drawn

to these arms.

Her withering charms.

Seceding from harm

in her weakening form.

She’ll be torn

limb from limb from the devouring

sin

As the acid begins to replace her with tin

(the resemblance sets in)

I am in this sad spin –

As I’m turning and lurching

and graveyard-to-churching

I’m perching on preaching

remember the teaching

that my left hand is my mother, and she was the first I ever had

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