Dead Mother I by Michael Best
a soul retreating / into these little / hands stretching towards the light
Dead Mother I
by Michael Best
her eyes broken & / singing / the way birds sing / as they mourn in the / night pale skin pulled taut / over the same / old / skeleton her / lips locked / in place sliver of throat / rivers of hair receding / into the vast fabric / of darkness the / black oaks / shrouding her cold / embrace cradles / me softly / so softly hands bloody / & sleepy so / sleepy / tired of waiting / hold / me hold / me / the way birds / feed their young / with the slag of / worms drowned / & lifted / as children in / heavy rain the sky / aching as a mother / aching / the moment the skull / empties itself back / into the earth that / feeble animal called a soul retreating / into these little / hands stretching towards the light / for the very first / time to wake anew / & sleep again / to listen close to the song / of bones the song / of sacrifice / for the very last / time to wake anew / & sleep / again eyes veiled / in snow birds migrating / back & / forth rocked back / & forth into the night / tired / & alive / the sanctifying beast of death / swallows her / back & / forth into the black / forest where / everything / fades / as ash breath / body / blood / & we were / one / & i am one.
This poem is in response to Dead Mother I by Egon Schiele (1910)
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I find the format of "Mother," a paragraph sprinkled with slash marks, both annoying and pretentious, as if this format makes the piece excitingly transgressive and original. It doesn't.
Annette, it's something I've been seeing a lot of, especially in the more "experimental" journals. Someone is trying extra hard to look innovative and "tricksy." Just makes me sigh as I contemplate hacking my way through the verbose undergrowth.