Mother (prayer for my)
by Leanne Drapeau( )
no longer a self contained thing something too raw a sort of vibration around the edge like all her parts (the stuff you can’t control like molecules or particles) are angry so fucking angry they bleed into each other Rothko orange open wound face flushed wrinkles deep hair moving of its own accord holding remaining red too hard
( )
One thinks of people
who talk to trees
wear tinfoil hats
or fear shadeless windows at night
(who knows if it’s their own reflection
or the darkoutside they can’t face)who know their last or first or only chance lies in some meeting of that reflection and whatever
nameless . distant . close . brilliant . terrifying . Good . wild . forceexists
in which all things hold together
( )
she falls asleep on the living room couch
under the living room window
the close dark falling heavier than her cares
dishes still in the sink
and the low buzz of the stove light singing
(at a lower frequency)
angels watchin over me my lord
while the fridge hums the harmony
and
her own frenetic vibrations quiet for a time
she is a child
held
Untitled by Jon Zowakli
Painting
