To Mother
Do not confront me when I come home:
Open the door, leave the garden.
I have left my needlework on the bench —
I’ve had stockings that fasten for a long time.
Put the spade in the corner,
Place the pencil stub on the window.
I have read the envelopes in my pocket a hundred times:
That is why in places they are faded, the endings blackened out.
You will not be able to reproach me again:
Shamefully, he forgets that I was at home as I ought.
They will barely chide a man when they let him go . . .
When I come home do not confront me.
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