I
always had the feeling my mother would
die
for us, jump into a fire
to
pull us out, her hair burning like
a
halo, jump into water, her white
body
going down and turning slowly,
the
astronaut whose hose is cut
falling
into
blackness. She would have
covered
us with her body, thrust her
breasts
between our chests and the knife,
slipped
us into her coat pocket
outside
the showers. In disaster, an animal
mother,
she would have died for us,
but
in life as it was
she
had to put herself
first.
She
had to do whatever he
told
her to do to the children, she had to
protect
herself. In war, she would have
died
for us, I tell you she would,
and
I know: I am a student of war,
of
gas ovens, smothering, knives,
drowning,
burning, all the forms
in
which I have experienced her love.