With each passing day,
I am less my motherís son
and more her medicine.

She clings as any addict would,
and swallows without thinking.

The more of me she takes,
the more of me she needs.

The more she needs,
the less powerful I become.

Dose by dose, her will is gone,
but her mind is still demanding.

Stand up, it says,
count the weary
and the dead;
do not rest until you
have spoken all their names.

June 24, 2006

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