
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.