“Untitled” by Charles Simic
My mother was a braid of black smoke.
She bore me swaddled over the burning cities.
The sky was a vast and windy place for a child to play.
We met many others who were just like us. They were trying to put on their overcoats with arms made of smoke.
The high heavens were full of little shrunken deaf ears instead of stars.
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wow. wow. the first line. reminds me of the exercises in poemcrazy. my...quarter century...
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My mother was a braid of black smoke.
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