I am struck today by the depth of this poem by Maya Stein. As I grow older I begin to feel mortality and the onset of the inevitable "disassembly"that she speaks of here. Follow her poetry. It sings.
how we unravel and gleam *
In her grief, my mother never looked so beautiful.
Strands of hair had uncoiled against her sweater.
Her voice did not armor itself against breaking. The pull
of an unnamable sea was carrying her down and she let her
body accept the current. It is an astonishing act to witness
the woman who moved mountains to bring you and your siblings
into the world surrender to her own brokenness.
Something shatters inside, whatever conviction you’ve been carrying
that admonishes you each time you fall apart. No more. Disassembly
is unavoidable as love, and just as hard and magnificent and necessary.
* I stole this line from Jill Malone’s wonderful book, Red Audrey and the Roping
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