Some would call it a beautiful day—
The cloudless blue sky,
The slight ocean breeze.
Sitting in the back seat
Of a blue, brown-paneled station wagon,
I watched, through the windshield,
My mother wave
A finger in my father’s face
On his front lawn.
Her point:
I did not call his wife a whore.
She was right.
I called her a prostitute.
What do you expect
A ten year old to say
When you joke that
She married you
For the money.
As usual,
He stood his ground.
The late checks/
The weekend cancellations/
The broken promises
Prepared him for the scolding,
Not the kicking.
She turned, planted,
And with a stomping right
Connected.
His FOR SALE sign left
Slanted/Unearthed/Dejected.
Monday, June 7, 2010
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3 comments:
I guess mothers are the themes of our poems today. I added a father to the picture.
BTW, welcome aboard Nooshin!!!
The lyrical quality adds to the story, especially in the end. I am left sadden by this poem (the way good poetry often leaves me) because it is raw and honest. The image of the car, the finger pointing, and the sign remind me of modernist poems that throw the reader into the moment and makes the reader observe the happenings of such moments. nice.
You tell this story beautifully, Brent, and it adds to the overall picture I have of your Brother's Father. It also paints your mother and yourself as a youth vividly, and, unable to separate art from the artist, I feel like I understand you more. This is a testament to the raw personal power of this poem, along with much of your writing that I've had the pleasure to sample.
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