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My mother tried to tell me with her downturned

mouth trembling at the corners, “I wish

I had been better to my own mother.

You will see someday.”

And now here is my child,

but not mine nor a child.

My body is a downward pull,

but not like the downward pull of birthing him.

In this one, the skin succumbs to gravity. The eyes,

the jaw, know regret already.

Why didn’t I?

Appreciate and rejoice

in the sun with her, who cannot come back.

as well

the boy turned man,

as well

the dog, who never could stay

and even now

the other half of me, the man,

who too often

I don’t recognize as such.