There are certain dead writers / who are like mothers who are more like moths / Coming to the light at night like friends
Like the refrain in MOTHERs, this is not my story. But its troubles brush the shoulders of mine and shine a mirror on others. This book hurt, as any important love can. It slipped into my wounds—another word for hope abandoned.
And then it also forced me to find thanks for what I have and what I make. My actual mother, my poetry mothers (dead and living), the poems I mother, the hope to mother, and even the fear that I will never get this chance—a wound, a crisis in light of which I feel most vulnerable and so, I suppose, most thoroughly alive.