Feb 17, 2009

Mother’s Day Omen

Written by Michelle Bitting

Read by Daniel Nester

Come, love, undress me anyway,
let your fingers fly
to my ruddy buttons,
my lips to your opened
underworld. The children,
cocooned in beds,
are dreaming of turtles
in iron canyons. The cat can watch
for all I care, here,
in the living room, where propped
pillows and candle glint
conjure palaces. Imagine
ruling my empire of thighs, laying
siege to my sunken tombs.
On my knees, with you
behind, the gold brocade
of your dead aunt’s rug
embeds its fleur across my brow.
We both know I don’t deserve it —
dust conspires on the mantle,
a lost peach grows green fur
in the fridge’s hoary crypt.
But, listen, love,
love me anyway.
You see those shimmering dots
peering through the snot-smudged windows?
They could be eyes
of the dog I saw yesterday:
coyote mama driven down
from the bull-dozed hills.
She was lost, zig-zagging
the streets, her swollen teats
jiggling nervously towards traffic.
And the mailman and I
stood there, dumbstruck,
passing envelopes between us.
Not caring, not wanting to know
whatever bad news it was
she was trying to deliver.

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