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   u n t i t l e d    #1

--- L I N D A   Z I S Q U I T

from My Mother's Death

I cannot speak to you in the old way. half truths half hidden, fearing you're doubting my goodness. Not because I've finished doubting myself, and not - the obvious choice - because I need some open space to grow away from you. Then I lied and bore the fact with pride. No you'll never know what I'm about to tell you: these months since you died I've carried out research, witnessed the past, reread your letters slowly, one by one, and the harvest I've reaped is your goodness, and the sorrow in the field where I once lay and now look up to see you gone is the burnt out patch when I lacked sympathy, and let you in half-way.

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