I come to the cliff again, this massive stone edifice that
faces the massive sky line across the river, for that breeze, cool her when
heat bakes the rest of this city, a place always reminiscent of her, even
though she’s been gone from here for nearly a decade.
I come here as if I am the ghost, not her, although she
remains that haunting figure to comes to me nearly every night in my dreams,
even when she ceases to be real in any other way, this place, this tabernacle,
this holy ground, letting me draw from it a sense of peace I can get nowhere
else, after she being my virgin mother who is neither virgin nor Madonna, yet
shines in the sunlight until I am blind.
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