DOWNLOAD QUICKTIME
Steven Stewart
POETRY
 

Himself, His Mother

 

His fiancée left him yesterday, and now he’s weary, like the wind.
His last chance for a better kind of love, or maybe escape.
He feels a hissing sound in his ears, like the word “Diaspora”
pronounced with no hope for redemption.  Mother asks him whether

it hurts: “Wasn’t she just an ornament?”  But he is no longer his body.
His fiancée left him yesterday, and now he’s weary, like the wind.
He is not himself, certainly not his mother.  He’s eaten too much cake,
he feels a hissing sound in his ears (like the word “Diaspora”),

and he may have wet himself.  She walked out, into the entropic rain,
and it hurts.  And wasn’t she just an ornament?  But he is no longer his body;
more like a mindless serial novel, or a dog bathing on the chapel steps.
He is certainly not himself, not his mother.  He’s eaten too much cake,

spilled vodka on the floor.  “So, are you happy now, Mother?”
He may have wet himself.  She walked out, into the entropic rain—
she was wearing a faded green jacket.  There’s nothing clever about loss;
it’s like a mindless serial novel, or a dog bathing on the chapel steps.

But perhaps he’s forgetting her already.  He kneels to lap up   
the spilled vodka on the floor.  “So, are you happy now, Mother?”
She leans down, kisses his neck.  He stares at her shadow in the tile:
she’s wearing a faded green jacket.  There’s nothing clever about loss

pronounced with no hope for redemption.  Mother asks him whether
perhaps he’s forgetting her already.  He kneels to lap up
his last chance for a better kind of love, or maybe escape.
She leans down, kisses his neck.  He stares at her shadow in the tile.

 


TOP