Afterthought 130—Eldritch

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2015/03/22

"No," our mother cut short my brother's plea
to make the stop where for two bits we'd see
a live five-legged dog. The whole next hour
we got the lecture about how no authenticity
can be found advertized at so cheap a price
at some rundown farm in the middle of nowhere,
how that extra so-called leg was just a piece
of an old sock sewn on, how it couldn't stand
or walk or scratch its owner behind its ear.
And by the time we were leaving Georgia behind
I had learned two lessons that I have found
to serve me well ever since.  First, how much
is like that dog's extra limb was said to be.
And then, how a thing not so can still be known
by the needle and tread through which it's sewn.

Desultory dreams will make up for you being out
later than you said you would be back.  I doubt
we were both as drunk as I've been known to get
reminded how empty it can get here, nothing left
to stitch together into a new leg or extra arm.
Yeah, anyway we were the ones making our escape,
mother no longer swallowing liquor as an excuse
to risk abandoning her children to your abuse.
I can't help wondering the fuss that bitch made
when her five-legged son got so poorly displayed.

The numbers are wearing off the ruler I've placed
over fabric I'm cutting, as if they'd been erased.
Become nearly as useless as a forgotten friend
ridiculed as waste, shrugged off and abandoned.
I don't think I need a replacement, not just yet,
as long as its edge can be used to make the cut.

Seems I'm always getting told to remove free will
from the exhibit.  Like, "Just accept me as I am,
I had nothing to do with this fifth leg I sport,
and me biting at you isn't done out of any ill
except yours at fault not paying your just due
to let me be the fraud my mirror's calling you."

Our mother said we'd escaped you none too soon.
Our mother patiently taught us how the waning moon
is silent without its sun.  Our mother understood
about fire, about rocks and herbs, about blood.
Our mother taught at so cheap a price what's sold
will not last.  Eventually the seam wears thin
and the false will fall away, as if never there,
like a word one never learned to hear get said.
Our mother dies as if alive and lives as if dead.

Unfamiliar.  Unexpected.  Strange, even weird
enough to be photographed, that's an extra charge.
Things that shouldn't be, they should be revered
and thought of as meaning as they have appeared
to be.  If we pass up the temptation to diverge
from where we are, we never get to where we go,
so settle for pretending what's real as though.


One Response

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  1. Samanthamj said, on 2016/01/08 at 21:44

    Amazing. Deep. Amazingly deep. 😉 And with such flow and rhythm. I’m impressed. As always.
    I have always had very mixed feelings about my own mom… but, I definitely miss her, now that she’s gone…

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