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For poetry.

"Momma I wanted to take you into the uncreated Bee and wasp Dog and cat Man and woman," I wrote and it was false My mother lay in her rose-colored bedroom in her bra and pantyhose her body old and soft and fat as a baby's In the silence the glint of her mirrors I bred a long-legged fly doubled it monstrously let it mime itself on the waters I bred it for poetry I said that her breasts pointed like guns that my father spun around us moony smile empty bed ashes hiding in the closet The thought had been sneaking hunting me that my mother was growing demented But that was the silence of our separate natures a raging infection the fruit of neglect My mother was wandering dehydrated a lonely old woman loveless who painted her face for the doctor I wrote that she was a harlot succubus black crush at the heart And why did I say that for poetry?

Richard Silberg is Associate Editor of Poetry Flash. His poems have appeared recently in Denver Quarterly and ON THE BUS, and he has finished a manuscript, Riding for What Was Missed.
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Author:Silberg, Richard
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Sep 1, 1993
Words:195
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