Above a muted battlefield—
steep, perpetual push.
A mother—
Herculean,
embracing a breathing boulder—
then another—
She heaves—
teeth clenched,
scabs scraped,
sweat smeared
across her path.
Her tears—mirrors
black cats crossing—
when—
Atë strikes—
She slips—
stones rumble,
roll—
one by one—
over her.
Will she rise,
or exhale
into oblivion?
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Wolverine Lily 