I wrap my mother’s body in a small blanket. She is light in my arms. Sprawled by a fig tree, my father asks, Are thoughts made of our own flesh? I hesitate. Our flesh is a ship stripped of sails. We listen to the sound of the oars. A fig falls into my opening palm. Bodies are evolving myths. My mother is lighter and lighter each year.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 2.
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