Lion Head Mesa Doves and the boy

"ma."
maggie's voice was muffled, cracked, insensate. far beyond the coverings of cobweb, she burned like a conflagration.
the beauty — if she would be that when this was all over — remembered nothing of the whore who had born her. 
and yet it was for this woman she called now, once, struggling;
maggie continued to breathe after she fell silent, caught in the velvet dream of the poppy that crowfeather had given her.