Mother of Us AllElizabeth Savage
The one with violets in her lap or perhaps a lake of blue buttons knee deep and slipping when she stands small slashes scatter across her skirt soft as bandages. Then again she holds only the lilac shadow of her face moving into its seams then rising above her waist urgent with daylight. More likely she settles behind polished walls in her own house hued with hyacinth proximity a matrix of blood first tinged with air. Just to play devil’s advocate let’s say her thighs are coarse indigo paper soaked in need backlit with expression or even lavender paths of inquiry. Whether she turns when a name is called or if absorbed in a night’s iris intelligence remains immobile as the dinner bell strikes she is the one addressed.
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