by Katie Moore
Father is frugal with his love, more even
than with money—but that too. He drank awhile,
then stopped. There was more laughing before
he stopped, also more red faces and raised voices.
Mama mourns the whole cursed cosmos
in her tiny lotion-soft hands, it's all her fault.
She can never say why, but guilt rides her bones
like the spirit. She rubs worry raw. She wants
a drink. Birth is a lottery, two faced coin toss,
an accident falling somewhere
in the spectrum of hues between happy
and not. Life is a lover. Life is a switchboard.
Life is like fleshy fruit, sweetest
just before the rot sets in.
7
favs |
1326 views
10 comments |
113 words
All rights reserved. |
Published in THIS Literary Magazine May/June 2012!
This story has no tags.
good stuff.
Incredible images. "guilt rides her bones" for example. *
Wonderful phrasings throughout, Katie -
"She rubs worry raw. She wants
a drink. Birth is a lottery, two faced coin toss,
an accident falling somewhere
in the spectrum of hues between happy"
Good piece.
Glad to have a new poet's eye view gracing the boards with the rest of ours.*
Well, glad to be here. Thanks for reading, guys. I'm glad this little bit of my brain has been well received so far!
Fantastic last lines. I really enjoyed this.
Fantastic last lines. I really enjoyed this.
"Life is a lover."
Good poem, Katie.
"awhile" or "a while"?
OK this is seriously intense and compelling.
"Life is like fleshy fruit, sweetest just before the rot sets in." Seriously! Totally. Well said indeed. No shit! Live in the present. *
Thanks, guys!
"awhile" or "a while"? That is the question I am contemplating right now. :)