She ate cotton candy and 
watched Seattle seabirds hold 
steady in nondescript
movie-sound
and almost forgot the scar
he stretched around her heart
before she died.

Now, a thousand miles down-coast,
California oceancoast,
glass house above sunset sky — 
that’s where she’s always been,
soft blanket, now, soft light — 
a story she likes, 
a dusky sea — 

her intransigence now just a word 
describing another mother,
someone sad far far away.

*

More poems? They’re HERE.

And then there are the BOOKS here.