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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Childhood memories are often fragmented, and this piece was inspired by the experiences of my young mother while I was in elementary school in NE Ohio. Winters weren't the only things that could
grow cold.

Submitted: July 20, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 20, 2018




I see in her mottled skin
such visions
of dishwater pain,
The desperately overturned
second-hand furniture,
stripped bare of our lunch money.

Here in the crispest of mornings
lies purpose- in oatmeal, in Praise the Lord,
in sitting still while the tea boils;


Here in the emptiness of my third grade,
she is free to be trapped in polyester,
free to consider all the worlds
her hands have had to make from scratch.

(He is a forgetful bastard this morning,
all caught up in his steering gears
without a drop of change.)

So this is what warmth can be,
as we huddle by the gas oven for heat,
and stare holes through the blue flames.

She is not my mother this morning-
She is a scalloped-skinned mutt,
carefully trampling down the circles
where she may find tea-stained redemption.

I would tell you more,
but sometimes yellow
trucks stop by,
to rescue small children
from all matters human.

© Copyright 2019 Michael Pollick. All rights reserved.

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