The sun has burned her brown,
with dark marks upon her lips
of words not to forget, the way
trees remember to be willows
and in the yard behind the house
peaches and apricots, fresh fruit
at maturing periods of the year.
Yes, our mother raised us thus
into a grove, grapes of the city
where children are no longer
the duty of a whole village—
then carved us up and slept us
around her in the sun on the roof,
as close to her God as possible,
for us to shrink like her but store
the wisdom of her flesh inside.

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