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The Mother | Veronica Golos

Written By هشام الصباحي on Friday, 5 June 2015 | 06:20

The Mother 

My mother has gone quiet – a silence not of lack, or fear or anger, but of a great attention – a leaning into.

She has left the language of populations, consequence, variety – even the clamor

of need, she forgets. She smiles at the back and forth of talk; the art of give and take.

She hears what’s underneath.  Child, she whispers, the sun splashes into the sea; when the clouds shift, their touch against the sky rustles like silk touching thigh.

She is leaving this world. Her listening is a kind of touch, 

the way you’d feel along a wall – intent, imagining. She fills and is filled – is glass, pitcher,  water flowing. She stands at the center  of endless concentric circles, at the navel  of the world, from which infinite lines emerge –

a hand through water,  making ripples . . .


[1] A well-known photographer who lives in Gaza

[2] Manadel al-Jamadi was a prisoner at Abu Ghraib.  “Ghosts” or un-uniformed operatives beat him to death; American soldiers tried to hide his death by removing him from the prison in a stretcher, with an IV attached. See The New Yorker, Nov. 14, 2005, article by Jane Mayer.


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