Mother of whispers, mother
of sorrow, she sits at a tall table and ponders
the morrow, wait until dinner time,
holding my hand, wait til the broccoli
lies dead in the stand. Then, you may come
to the mother of sorrow, she'll tell you
hope is oven-bound, when she means
we are dying.
Bienvenue
The moon shines down upon an open field, while you walk on the bare, crumbling cement of the path. The trees are welcoming but dark, and the night feels no place to wander.
About Me
- Jaro
- My name is Jeremy, and I create, research, and teach comics and graphic narratives (and their overlap with anthropology, ethnography, media, communication, etc.). I am also a textile artists, and I am often up for doing work freelance/by commission -- ask me and see. And now, a poem: watching stars collide, i breathe a sigh of wonder; life so short, yet so long
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