Back to Ann's Profile

Original Poem - Mother's Day

0:00
0:00
Voice Over • Podcasting
79

Description

Reading of original poem for podcast, Bothersome Things, on the occasion of Mother's Day.

Vocal Characteristics

Language

English (North American)

Voice Age

Middle Aged (35-54)

Transcript

Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
coming home late from my daughter's preschools. Mother's Day team a feast of banana walnut muffins made by those who'll one day discover elements Q and J or become secretary of state, but for now need to learn to blow their small noses and wash their three and four year old hands before they bake the coffee. Thank the scenes was brewed by the young women who teach them by far more able to measure and read and who I have no doubt after spending the morning where the wild things are spend their meager disposable income on Valium and pot. Back home in the yard, the roadie lay back, muscles exposed, feather and skin stripped away. Somehow the dumb hen found her way up over the fence with a lab, waited full of all good fun and play unlucky for both of us. The lab quit when she gave up the struggle, the game ending with the often unfortunate results of well fed domestication, not the quick and merciful death of the food chain, but the gruesome maiming in the memory of instincts and whose purpose is long for gotten. She raises her head and looks at me a gutter a week ball rolls out of her tiny throat, a sound uncertain whether it is a greeting or a plea to the Lady Me, the one who comes each day with strawberry holes and fruit skins. There is nothing for it, but what must be done. Hiking my long skirt with one hand, I cuff the happy dog's snout with the other and hurry into the house to grab the kitchen knife. A butcher knife Squinting against the late spring sun, I grasped the tiny head pull the neck to bear the skin beneath the almost incandescent red and black red feathers. It is easier than I expect, but I still close my eyes too hard. Hats cut through the spine, leaving the head from the body around us. The day heat since cicadas home waking for the first time in 14 years. Big Church calling out thousands rejoicing. Birth Thea Art teacher will try and feed them hidden between cheese and crackers to the fathers when their brunch comes in a month. But I don't know that now. Still dressed in my respectable best small beaded purse slung over my shoulder, now bloody nice and hand ahead for the house I know behind headless, she still struggles inside. I washed her blood and feathers from my hands before I hang the crown portrait of a small blonde stick figure and her dyed, red headed mother, now holding hands and encircled with the heart.