by John Grey
glossy lipstick that glitters
red and flush –
the face,
much of it in ruins,
eyes like broken glass,
kneels, kowtows, bows,
nervous as a skittish cat
at a vet,
as the ground opens and closes
beneath her
could be stoned,
could just sweat,
the sun is merciless
when it comes to illumination,
shared souls
grown away from misunderstanding
into need,
struggling to become one
in a city park in April
mother and daughter
overcoming an error in calculation,
with trees and ponds
and ducks and pigeons,
learning what it takes
to be a presence in the place
