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—