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Click hereBut from the hayloft
you and sticky-eyed kittens
watched father pull the hoe
across the lime-crusted wheelbarrow.
You told Mom it was like gravy
in a mashed potato dam.
From Nana’s porch
you saw the gears catch Allen’s fingers.
Held wet washcloths for the blood.
Held wet washcloths over kitten’s eyes
softened crust, drained the puss.
You wiped counters.
The women said,
This is how we fix a broken cake
with icing, use the knife
to even ridges, scrape powder
from the side of the bowl.
Today you do not call for help.
I watch you fill holes,
patch cracks in the steps
that lead to your house.
You scrape excess cement
with the edge of your trowel,
pull it smooth before
before preparing chicken
for the evening meal.
is as mundane as mutaual (ah, there is that extra "a" I've been looking for). This poem is as extraordinary as the woman it is about.
just saying it's not mundane.
I did cringe reading about Allen's fingers and the puss. I'm squeamish.
I question the structure of the second strophe, simply because it is inconsistent with the rest of the poem.
To me, it looks better this way:
From Nana’s porch
you saw the gears catch Allen’s fingers,
held wet washcloths for the blood
and over kitten’s eyes,
softened crust, drained the puss.
Your human look at every day items is very professionally done. You stay at a distance, and never ever allow sentimentality to creep into your poetry.
Sorry. I disagree. Not spectacluar. Mundane. But then I am not in the mutaual stroking society.
the stop gap
patchwork patch job
wordsblended and bended
on your tricky knife
spread thick grouted
to careful lines between
an amazing moziac of images
we all step back and are amazed
swirlly wrilly grrl