My mother, made of gauze, could never be
unveiled, for veils she was, and to be viewed
she must be worn, as oysters wear the sea
around their pearly necks, though born as nude
as teardrops on a cheeky smile, in wrecks
of bone and coral, over collars getting
wet. My mother, softly woven hex
upon a silent story, not regretting,
never passing, only waving, blanket
blanking lovers, love absorbing, warmly
nothing, beautiful as wind, so plank it,
stand in salty air, the plankton forming
dusty pillows, as their cases trail
behind. I’m empty. Let me be your sail.