Eden Again (Choices)

Mothers make anxiety beautiful, like a bloody rope, becoming a chord for you, becoming music that sort of drifts out of a stoic word like lore and helps it survive its immortality one child at a time. No, I'm not pregnant, just thinking about god by accident I added an I to the French word for two, deux became dieux and there we were, hoods across our arrows, becoming our mother's roses, my eyes are not on the sparrow, I'm listening to Mike Tyson turn sincerity into this thin parable/literal, for illusion, wherein everything fits in the ring but your shadow isn't fairyism less rare than we know, isn't knowing impossible besides forgotten. I mean, what would you have to forget to really know your mother? Afterall. That might be where we are on earth, clinging to an overdose of memory.