The Mother

Like the grotesque ceramic for show, against one’s wishes, the brighter cry, the trilling snaps of ridicule coming from the bed; infant-infested woeful and forgotten splashes unrolled along the sun; the fold of the flowers’ scent, taken all from the woods! And yet what is life worth in moments like these? with one divided by the arms and each new branch, the rue of awesome seas, the lovely motions;
and who could have thought one sad minute collapsing into the bird-cages, spinning out disbelief from the reds blooming on burbling seas?

• Marianne Moore