oh antic God

oh antic God

return to me

my mother in her thirties   

leaned across the front porch   

the huge pillow of her breasts   

pressing against the rail

summoning me in for bed.

I am almost the dead woman’s age times two.

I can barely recall her song

the scent of her hands

though her wild hair scratches my dreams   

at night. return to me, oh Lord of then   

and now, my mother’s calling,

her young voice humming my name.