GOOD NEWS BAD NEWS
A Motherless Race
every body is running.
the clock says we should run.
time is tired of its circular madness.
i have drawn the last air tonight in
my lung
and it hurts to see children running
to the sea.
their hearts burning with topaz fever.
bulging eyes with no sight.
it hurts to call out to the sea and not
be heard.
to break through a violent ripple and
find that all your breath would one
day go out to the sea.
the way waves go and leave the sea
sober and still.
it is deadly to hold on to things and
people in the
broken fragment of your only light.
the clock says run.
and i remember the strength of my
youth.
the children of my youth roam all
around gasping for wind in their
lungs.
but the wind has no mouth to say,
“I am gone.”
it only speaks in its swerve
and
wingless voice.
the clock says run.
but my mother is not here.
how do I run a motherless race?
she hates poetry.
she said poetry stole her boy at a
flower age.
this thing is a green leaf swallowing
sunlight.
more feet are approaching the sea.
their footprints in sand remind me
of the direction mother turned
when I started running.
The Delightful Mrs P 