My cousin
Has a picture
Of her dead mother
My dead Aunt
In front of Mt. Rushmore.
Only Washington is there
Sediment lines run through his wig
He stares into the sky alone
Lord of the land but a soldier and no mystic.
His stony gaze subjugating
How these Black Hills must have stirred and quaked
Under this shuddering chiselled edge
Cutting her veins and hammering
Rock dust away from eon's erosion and decay.
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