Your mother’s two hands buckle at her front
like a strapped stone. You curl
your body away like smoke,
melt into his. You don’t know
what to call this feeling-
after-feeling so you say it’s love.
Like a secret set of wings.
No one knows if it’s really there.
intriguing snapshot of a snapshot.
ReplyDeleteGenerally breezy but a little vague. Also, there's a graveyardy feel to all of this, which is okay, but try not to be mesmerized.
ReplyDelete8/10 - You've whipped up some mystery by visiting Rilke's grave (that's me over there by an unknown tablet, changing my wet socks), however 'strapped stone' is a bust. The last two lines pushed it up over a 7. If you call yourself out on the bullshit it will be a 9 or 9-five. Only God gets a ten.