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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
 

Grinthal_edited.jpg

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.

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