Mother....
I am nothing, nothing,
And the bloom is broken.....
She has forgotten to check the locks,
And the monster is loose....
I am no more,
As he takes her with his will....
I am no more,
As my mother told me
The publisher was a lie,
An easy meal for the tiger,
The fanged stranger jumping on the shore....
Maybe it would be easier as a homosexual,
And more translucent as a nun;
The trouble-free men take her in the space
Of commercials,
Taste her like an effortless meal....
But I love her, mother,
And I am the only one,
Though don’t tell father,
Or he’ll eat me, the flatulent bear....
He’ll eat me, and then eat another....
There are strange men doing her as
They are able,
The dime-store strangers with perfect teeth....,
But they will soon decay, mother,
Their tomb-stones facing east....
Even after death has eaten me, mother,
Even after it has cleaned my face,
I will still love upon her, mother,
The hiccupping possibilities
In her womb....
I will still love her mother,
Even as you come out of the still
Young door, mother,
And harp up to the blooming storm...
Can you taste the hyathines,
Blooming in red on the front corner of the rented lawn;
They are a part of the unremembered, mother;
And already gone before the rented dawn,
But I love her still, mother,
Even though I no longer recall who I am,
[...] Read more
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
Added by Poetry Lover
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