The Mood This Morning

Will it keep my mother in my mind
Or hold me down until the shadows pass?

This thing I do in slowly pulsing light
That finds the center of black

If in this room I had the say
I’d cut it surgically around
Place it glistening aloud
On my wobbly lusterless tray

(Preserving just the thinnest plane
As we must do for the children’s sake)
Then, honoring its toxic power,
Take it to some Holy Ground
And bury it in Flame

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