The Art of Description by Mark Doty over two months ago, but I can't shelve the book, because I keep needing to read this poem he quotes to feel sane. It's the poem I've been in no shape to write. Do you identify with the mother racked with unconditional love? The practical, and probably rightly angry speaker? Or the speaker at the end, who suddenly realizes and marvels at the weight of this mother's love - as mysterious and beautiful as the moon?