Find and share the perfect poems.
So who mothers the mothers who tend the hallways of mothers, the spill of mothers, the smell of mothers, who mend the eyes of mothers, the lies of mothers scared to turn on lights in basements filled with mothers called by mothers in the dark, the kin of mothers, the gin of mothers, mothers out on bail, who mothers the hail-mary mothers asleep in their stockings while the crows sing heigh ho carrion crow, fol de riddle, lol de riddle, carry on, carry on—
Except for the shirt pulled from the ocean, except for her hands, which keep folding the shirt, except for her body, which once held their bodies, my sister wants everything back now-- If there were a god who could out of empty shells carried by waves to shore make amends-- If the ocean saved in a jar could keep from turning to salt-- She's hearing things: bird calling to bird, cat outside the door, thorn of the blackberry against the trellis.
This evening I shared a cab with a priest who said it was a fine day to ride cross town with a writer. But I can't finish the play I said, it's full of snow. The jaywalkers walked slowly, a cigarette warmed someone's hand. Some of the best sermons don't have endings, he said while the tires rotated unceasingly beneath us. All over town people were waiting and doubleparked and making love and waiting. The temperature dropped until the shiverers zipped their jackets and all manner of things started up again.
iv.
I know agape means both dumbly
open and love not the kind of love
that climbed the stairs to you.