By Mary Hotlen

My child self
Learns an orphan's truth
And rages against the
                    triviality of afternoon
                    errands and a speeding
Truck. A shocked
Violence upon frailty.

Touch is an inchoate
Language of veneration and
Loss is flat moonstone
                    without hand-holds; there is
                    no nestle-place to comfort
A penitent. Death
Is silent concierge of

Empty rooms and my
Descent into mother-less-ness
Is a rattle of mourning
                    whose dark enormity
                    shades into new identity. Sun
Spots appear in the
Glare of snow.

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