Cunt

Just go to the gym.
On your way home, buy
coriander and cumin, a bag
of spices that begin with C.

Consider a curried stew,
your mother’s recipe, bits
of cilantro dropped on top;
a polenta cake with cardamon.

Call your mother, dead these years.
Into the silence enumerate her failings.
Wait for her to explain.
Wait. Wait forever.

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