In this nacre place
Mother of tears
I wait to make a pearl
From this rough grain
of failed communication, pain
Something smooth and shiny
Mother of tears
Form from this nameless sadness
Something —
Something my soft pulp
can roll against
No longer be caught up
No longer need
to coat with layers of thought
Form this foreign thing
into our essence
Iridescent, luminous
A worthy gift to bring up from the night
A pearl to lift up meekly to the light.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 5, 2011
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