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Sons

Posted Nov 13 2012 12:06pm
Henry, 11/10/12



The History of Mothers of Sons


All sons sleep next to mothers, then alone, then with others
Eventually, all our sons bare molars, incisors
Meanwhile, mothers are wingless things in a room of stairs
A gymnasium of bars and ropes, small arms hauling self over selfMothers hum nonsense, driving hereand there (Here! There!) in hollow steeds, mothers reflectinghow faint reflections shiver over the roadAll the deafening musts along the wayMothers favor the moon—hook-hung and mirroring the sun—there, in a berry bramble, calm as a stoneThis is enough to wrench our hand out of hisand simply devour him, though he exceeds even the tallest grassEvery mother recalls a lullaby, and the elegy blowing through it
Lisa Furmanski (via Poetry Foundation)
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