by Steve Scafidi

　　Before she is turned away

　　for the last time in the moment

　　before the new world begins

　　harrowing her like a field

　　and the sun and moon disappear

　　and the stars and the houses

　　suddenly become illustrations

　　in a book no longer to be

　　believed burning to ashes—

　　before the earth beneath her

　　rises up through her body

　　slowly， every green cell

　　yellowing in the aftermath—

　　just before this begins and

　　it begins constantly over

　　and over in the secret nucleus

　　of mothers quietly humming

　　at every second continuously

　　she breathes the odor of honey，

　　his hair still the odor of honey.

　　by Steve Scafidi

　　Before she is turned away

　　for the last time in the moment

　　before the new world begins

　　harrowing her like a field

　　and the sun and moon disappear

　　and the stars and the houses

　　suddenly become illustrations

　　in a book no longer to be

　　believed burning to ashes—

　　before the earth beneath her

　　rises up through her body

　　slowly， every green cell

　　yellowing in the aftermath—

　　just before this begins and

　　it begins constantly over

　　and over in the secret nucleus

　　of mothers quietly humming

　　at every second continuously

　　she breathes the odor of honey，

　　his hair still the odor of honey.

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