by Renwick Berchild

Mother rings inside my ears:
She scratches the big empty as a cat would bat
The dangles of curtains and wobbling kitchenry.

She blares as a hot prod,
Thunders as mustangs across Chincoteague;
Mother is a peeling, daggering wind
Over the ancient, far Ionian Sea.

Howling, uber dimensioned
—Restless, so buzzing as a fly against the glass
She never seemed to simply be.

So like my mind she is full of motion,
Filling and dissipating in my brain
As rainfall screaming upon the ocean; green eyes as Irish dales,
Hands roughshodden,
Mouth lined and tobacco sweet.
The laundry always had a hint of cigarette.

Even in my memories,
The woman never sleeps.

First published on October 30, 2014

This poem is also featured in my chapbook, The Red Robe.


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