“I’ll always take what you say, with a pinch of salt”
This, She said to me without a touch of the iron
Required to wrinkle out the truth, which belies a Mother’s belief
At twenty thousand miles of distance and grief
Only time that drains her voice of tune once held
At the other end, can be felt, that strength
Which once admonished so stoutly, now
Furrows a condescending prow, two oceans distance
I shan’t blame her, nor condone my actions,
Here alone, I set the terms, the shed shell chosen,
The end of the earth, the golden land, decision
And cutting apart, incision given
By her, as a parting gift, too sharp, too shard,
To commit to belief, I should choose a life
So hard, and without her in it, darning sock,
Or choosing lint, I would be the one to squint
At a horizon, always feigning the act
To disappear, throwing salt over my shoulder, as she told me:
Would always swirl around this globe, and re-appear.
