Hyperion And Her Other Sons

How do you begin,
still sleeping in the fear
of the voices of the wives of all men,
to write a poem about your mother?

When you let your head fall
and it meets rock, where once
there was the forgiveness
of arched ribs under your cheek,
how can you swallow what lean milk leaks
from those unseen fissures?

Yes and yes, you will live with that shame
that comes from knowing that you stand
only because you trample the earth down,
pressing her gravely under foot,
allowing your heart to breach the horizon
and the hairs on your head to become live wires
into the sky,

and the ozone taste of electricity in your mouth
is the burnt taste of the pride

that she always intended.