The Stories of Bedtime
I am the only mother
And you are the only son
Your father
He too is the only father
The only man
His father and my father
Are past fathers
Stories to tell you
Of men
Who once walked
My mother and his mother
A photograph and a portrait
We look to
Upon the wall
You will have a sister
And she will be the only daughter
I a daughter of the painted tales
Your father will read you
To remember when it was
Our time
The Cows
Years of going to the farm
Years of taking the walk with your mother, guests and guards
From the warm house to the horses you mostly go down
For an hour with your mother, guests, and guards
Fenced by black wood and electric wire
The narrow path has hills on both sides
An indigo lake at the end of each end
Fresh water springs and bridges that cross
Today I made the descent in thirty-five
No talk, no guards
Fast past the pregnant cows that moan
Took a stick to repel the dirty dogs
But on the climb back to the house
A herd of cows was using my path
With my stick I bent electric wire
And sat in a pasture to wait for the cows
During my wait the grass moved in waves
And I watched white clouds drift by
But I knew it would sound dumb
If I wrote it down just like that
So I sat in a field to think of ways
To thank the walk and the cows for the wait
But when I got up to a path blackened by shit
I lost all hope for the scope of this poem
Normal Things
People live without it all the time
Eat without it
Shit without it
Sleep without it
Work without it – better perhaps
Plus technology gets the job done
Small and silent and well-contoured
Besides it’s not like he’s hitting me or anything like that
Not like we break things or make the baby cry
No, just normal things like insomnia
Like ripping apart a sealed box
The magic died and we are angry
But here we are, married
And we cannot hail another ride
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