A.j. Binash

(04-20-1988 / Dodgeville WI)

And The Mother Said to Her Son...


O. My little Boy.
I remember
When those mud stains
Appeared
On yr kneecaps.

How young.
You were.

I was watching from the kitchen window.

Watching the denim wrinkle.
Disguising the mud-stains
As smiles.

Time has killed everything.

Why has this nostalgia survived?

Judgment. Mother.
My bended denim
Cowers in dust.

I declared
That when the mud-stains dried,
The smiles would be permanent.

Instead. I shiver.
I shiver to force the dust off.
Waiting…

O. My little Boy.
I never meant a smile
To be used as rigor mortis.

There’s death in a bow.
Allow this motion
To humble you.

Mother. Now. YES! NOW!
I am a poet. Can’t you see?
Now. Yes? Look!

I describe death.
I know my path
Through darkness.

I will bend my knees
In the grave.

O. My little boy.
Your darkness is imaginary.

But. Mother. Don’t you love me?

O. My little boy.
I did not wipe the dust
From my own eyes.
To see you standing still.

It has been ten years,
Yet you show up to dinner
Filthy!

But…mother.
I enjoy the dust.

My pathetic. Little. Man.
Then let it be known.
I have taught you nothing.

Submitted: Wednesday, November 13, 2013

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