There she was, the mother of me, like a lit plinth,Heavenly,....

“ There she was, the mother of me, like a lit plinth,Heavenly, though I was reared to find this kind Of visitation impractical; she was an unbearable detailOf the supreme celestial map,Of which I had been taught that there wasNo such thing. ”

Lucie Brock-Broido

From : Trouble in Mind: Poems