Epitaph as My Mother’s Daughter

There is no beach

that is not my mother. There are no stars

that are not unshaken disasters, no disasters

that aren’t unlatched stars. Waves

deploy like her fists. This is where it comes from,

this rhythm of falling that breaks

into less than cosmetic parts.

There is no lipstick on the wind. In the air

on the wind. She never hit me hard enough

to break my face. We blow forward,

we break forward. I’m sorry, the world

makes more sense without her.