Pietà

    Before she is turned away

    for the last time in the moment

    before the new world begins

    harrowing her like a field

    and the sun and moon disappear

    and the stars and the houses

    suddenly become illustrations

    in a book no longer to be

    believed burning to ashes—

    before the earth beneath her

    rises up through her body

    slowly， every green cell

    yellowing in the aftermath—

    just before this begins and

    it begins constantly over

    and over in the secret nucleus¹

    of mothers quietly humming

    at every second continuously

    she breathes the odor² of honey，

    his hair still the odor of honey.