Mother
by Michael Grinthal
The word you’ve entered
isn’t in the thesaurus
​
1.
You, walking
And walking the woodened
​
Nerves, hurled
Like the bush up
​
Into flame
For him, for that
​
Other
One, to hear. I
​
Heard.
I did
​
The thing with
My fingers, crouching
​
Under the kitchen
Table twisting
​
Them into a
You. You, many-
​
Knotted, stupidly
Unburnt, undressed many-
​
You, you
Cough so loud
​
The doorbell rings.
No one pays
​
You for your work.
Space grows
​
More timelike, the kitchen
More shoutlike, the rain
​
In the window bigger
And bigger like
​
A planet we are
Reaching. You
​
Can I call
You that
​
Why do you burn
And never burn
​
Up
2.
mother
​
Of separated
​
Shoulder walking
And unwalking the length
​
Of a daughter. Sentry
Soldier, you
Fell
​
Over the tomb of
The unknown
​
Diagnosis the overgrown
Rhododendron moving
​
Violations hundreds
Of those. I heard
​
You’re cured
Now cured you’re
​
Cured therefore not
Yet song
​
In boots nor leaves
Blown
​
In winter’s difficult kitchen
Door. Still
​
The verbs gather, wrong
​
Formed, heard
By the throat, the attic’s
​
Hog-tied storm
We are ashamed
​
Of them - go
To the ancient
Toilet
Your clothes
Hanger shoulders
I know, you’re sick
​
With me
Michael Grinthal’s poems have appeared in Jubilat, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Realpoetik, Triangle Shirtwaist Fire, and other publications. He has worked for 20 years as a community organizer and lawyer in the racial justice and tenants’ rights movements.