Song: Early Death of the Mother Poem by Gregory Orr

Song: Early Death of the Mother



The last tear turns
to glass on her cheek.
It isn't ice because
squeezed in the boy's hot
fist, it doesn't thaw.
It's a tooth with nothing
to gnaw; then a magical
thorn: prick yourself
with it, thrust it in soil:
an entire, briary
kingdom is born.

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Gregory Orr

Gregory Orr

Albany, New York
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