My mother has always thought

Her house was made of survival 

Built on a tiny, slight stone

When that pebble was meant to be skipped

Across a forgotten pond

Not kept forever

A strange kind of hated treasure 

Convincing the world of the weight

In her pockets

Sinking into a fainting couch 

Until her skin began to graft with it


When the real boulders come

Her atrophied legs can’t stand in strength 

And her captors 

Whom she allowed to name her

Will pretend to carry that boulder in her stead

Saving up the capital of faux goodwill 

For when she is dust


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