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In basic college, my mom rides the pink bus to “protection magnificence.”
Station one she crosses a brook with knotted rope.
Station two she bandages any individual’s leg. Station 3
she affixes her fuel masks and crawls the trail to station 4,
the place she eats goulash with pals. They stroll house making a song
The golden gate is open, opened with a golden key.

Grown, when defenseless towards “mud within the blood,” caught
on the base of the steps with a weighted head, she brings herself
outdoor. Station one she climbs a step. Station two
she climbs a step. In my front room hangs a portray
that reads, “The rope on the finish of the rope.”
In my mom’s front room is a window
the place I watch her feed the grackles from her hand.

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