Friday, May 12, 2006

World War Two Gene: Mother's Day Poem

Anne still suffers
from the loss
written in the tissue
of one who came after.

It is the cold homelessness of Ohio
and the railroad towns
where no one understands
comportment and stenography.

She can never go back
except for brief breathless
visits during which she watches
everything age and fade.

They are tough there in Ohio.
It is war time and everything is
cobbled together out of plywood
and corrugated tin. The fun unforgiving,

the kind in which only strangers indulge,
sweeps away speech,
the soothing seriousness of roots,
the inherence of value.


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