Lucille Clifton




poem on my fortieth birthday
to my mother who died young

well i have almost come to the place where you fell
tripping over a wire at the forty-fourth lap
and i have decided to keep running,
head up, body attentive, fingers
aimed like darts at first prize, so
i might not even watch out for the thin thing
grabbing towards my ankles but
i'm trying for the long one mama,
running like hell and if I fall,
i fall.