A Mother's Day Poem, Two Weeks Late

The rock which blocks the river's progress,
Splits its flow and towers, blotting out
The sun and warming light, a slime-
Encrusted, awful thing, appears again.
My mother's here, her self-absorption
Sucking in the air I would have used
To breathe if she had not been in the
Room. So righteous in her wretchedness,
So filled with noxious gases leaking out,
Becoming lies and myths, as something
Dead beside a road, but she persists;
She doesn't die. The rock which makes
The river froth with fury, and which
Darkens it has claimed its customary
Place. The river does its best to hurry by.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 12 times
Written on 2011-05-22 at 12:51

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