Mother ( III )

A throne of sponge soaked black

Pools with every pressure – the ass,

The side, the back, even the eye.

Anticipatory floating through a

Weightless house pulled me past it,

Beige and leering. An anchor would

Drop from the sky each time, flattening

My chest to mottled paper.

Despite their constant invitation to

Lounge I’ve grown to hate couches,

Comfort. A crib-cage, a plush prison, the

Stilled throbbing lace cocooning

My mother. He has one in scarlet, a

Monument of sorts. I drown in its

Redness, feeling her hammered

Across my lap.

There is always a herd in the upper

Level of department stores.

Firm, feather-filled. She sits or leans or

Lays in each one. Pleated skirt, hosiery,

Or the ghostly slip and camisole with a

Night’s worth of oil. Smudged face.

Twenty of her, staring at me,

On couches – What I’d give to

Breathe fire.



© 2015 BENJAMIN SMITH