between the crown and pier of limbs,
the architecture—my mother
like the side of an arc, bending at the hips,
and everything up underneath
folding—knees, ankles—feet close together, toes pointed
forward—my mother flat-heeled on the kitchen floor
(plucking scalded duck, gutting rabbit, sorting red-gilled mushrooms)
—my mother in the chair of her torso
balanced and aloft
on her haunches
(there’s a lot going on)
neither resting, standing, sitting
—my mother
citizen:: not enemy:: non alien
the equivocal position
.
.