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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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