Standing under the shower
my mother washes her hair;
she is small and young.
She slicks back her hair from the temples
with the palm of one hand.
Her skin looks secret and cool;
her life does not go on from here.
Though she dresses and goes
this I don’t see in my dream;
she leans and smiles.
She is not thinking of me
though I stare in her eyes.
She is thinking of nothing at all
in that water, this dream, that stopped world.
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