There she was, the mother of me, like a lit plinth,Heavenly, though I was reared to find this kind Of visitation impractical; she was an unbearable detailOf the supreme celestial map,Of which I had been taught that there wasNo such thing.
Lucie Brock-Broido, Trouble in Mind: Poems
ambivalence, awe, divinity, mothers, personal-cosmology, still-life-with-aspirin