Issue 77, Winter-Spring 1980
Ruby Was Her Name
My mother, who opened my eyes, who
brought me into the terrible world,
was guilty. Her look apologized:
she knew what anyone said was true about us
but therefore unfair. How could they blame us
for doing the things we were set to do?
Never heroic, never a model
for us, or for anyone, she cowered
and looked from the corner of her eye—
“Et tu?” And it always meant we were
with her, alas. No one else
could find the center of the world.