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by Stephen Dunn
When Mother died I thought: now I'll have a death poem. That was unforgivable yet I've since forgiven myself as sons are able to do who've been loved by their mothers. knowing how long she'd live, how many lifetimes there are in the sweet revisions of memory. It's hard to know exactly how we ease ourselves back from sadness, but I remembered when I was twelve, 1951, before the world unbuttoned its blouse. I had asked my mother (I was trembling) if I could see her breasts and she took me into her room without embarrassment2 or coyness and I stared at them, afraid to ask for more. Now, years later, someone tells me Cancers who've never had mother love feel blessed again. What luck to have had a mother who showed me her breasts when girls my age were developing their separated countries, what luck with too much or too little. Had I asked to touch, perhaps to suck them, what would she have done? Mother, dead woman who I think permits me to love women easily, this poem we stopped, to the incompleteness that was sufficient and to how you buttoned up, began doing the routine things around the house. 点击收听单词发音
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