The mama thing

All the while big discourse goes on
Yet there is a small business under,
Peeping through encasing brackets
A pain raising hands for attention
A laconic mama thing, she long gone
(Picnic,lightning,), brackets closed.

Local nymphet thing is the present
But the window of pain opens out,
From brackets while words go on
Turning on a fucking parenthesis
(Nymphet,loins) ,brackets closed.

(My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory. Lolita- A novel by Vladimir Nabokov)

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