by Bill Yarrow
they were sitting at the breakfast table
waiting for more toast when she looked
up at him and said your mania for sentences
has dried up your heart that's not true mother
louise did that and gout and the middle
class you're just upset my fruit bowl is empty
come my darling let's take a walk in the garden
and water the desert of my heart the future may
surprise us yet gustave my sun my star
you're incorrigible yes mother I am but
give me your arm the eggs will have to wait
look the sun is bleeding on the flowers the clouds—
soft guardians of virtue— they will protect us
God is out walking his dog as over us
white bees hover like angels of clotted milk
All rights reserved.
This poem appeared in Skidrow Penthouse #16.
Thank you, Stephanie Dickinson.
It appears in Blasphemer (Lit Fest Press 2015).