My mother was a poet.
She paid great fees to be printed in large volumes
suitable for boosting small children at the table,
published in condensed 6 pt font
in the company of a great many other poets.
She wrote of big G-o-d and nature,
Miracles and suffering, redemption and curses,
of wanting to see, and of needing to be heard.

My father would "tap tap" her poetry on white lettered black keys the cloth ribbon re-inked by his unsteady hand,after faithfully journalling on same, the daily weather
and detailing the visits of his sins on his children and children's children on ruled notebook paper left over from our public schooling.
Then, he would write the check for her.
It was a raised letter check for the blind that she could endorse.
And he licked and place a stamp upon the right corner of a distant P. O. Box envelope
and another for the stamped and himself-addressed,so she could hear back.

My mother was a poet.