The Moya View

I Can Never Write Like My Mother

Am I left loving what my mother couldn’t?
— writing on patchouli scented paper
— words doused in sweet musky earth
— unsent letters, all sweet and spicy

I laid the stems of letters across wet pages—
but they did not take— failed to bloom—
I tired of the scent— wished for the
beautiful unadorned line— divorced
from all paper scratchings.
Now—I only write with the clicking turned off—
the rat-a-tat drives me mad—
It’s not the noise— the stroke of effort—
it’s hard— my vowels and consonants—
must live in silence- echo in the mind—
away from the tongue-- nothing must
match what my ears can’t hear—

—These almost words
—Is it in key?
—Is it speaking?
— It’s beyond my calendrical self
— lingers with the scent of sandalwood
— lacy and sparkling
— It shone in her mind
— Her song
— Music—





One response to “I Can Never Write Like My Mother”

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Sisu: Doing His Finnish Duty to the Dullest Extent
Land of the Yaupon Holly
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