The body of Abel dies on his body. Dead in the fields. The young dead, helpless as children, trust god but Never knew a bad thing to eat your mother. Eyes cut from Her eyes were as big as a glass of paint. Watch the lashes how they never close them, a hollowed out— Wide and Light that’s a good thing. A mother is, by nature, a lamp( bright and sudden with the flashes of the dead). Her time badly spent, her fear of ghosts; They are a mimic. All her loves, they are a mimic they are a loveless contortion and their exciting future blooms in Full Red out of our reach.
— Miriam Garra is living and working in Baltimore, Maryland.