Thread: Empty Mother

Empty Mother

Shaken by air,
I catch you breathless in shriveled hands,
and you’re just a snow globe, small like a cold beetle.
Wrestling with the sphere, you have a blade of a smile,
chewing the Venetian glass tree
you thought was your mother.
I want you here,
as a flake from the ceiling plummets to my nose,
and a world erupts violently when you laugh.
I want you to stop
being glass, ceramics, and skin.

You’re clobbering walls like you’ll break them,
kicking up snow, a thousand screaming cells,
drowning there, then waking, a brittle finger tapping.
Please stop that.
You have a fragment in your breath. I see it molding
on the glass, collective and dead, as I’m suddenly
empty.

I don’t want to waste you, but you’re so tiny,
...................I don’t see you anymore. You’re not
.................................................. ..those pieces…
and that’s what I pray for in the blizzard and my cavernous
mouth…something when it’s over.

I imagine you curling under a waxy blanket of specks,
and you’re just a speck, so I wish it wasn’t you.
I palm the globe, weeping, but now it’s immaculate,
and saucers of broken ceiling go to sleep on my body.

A crack.

I really like the metaphors you have going on here, for instance "you’re just a snow globe, small like a cold beetle" and the references to blizzards and specks - it softens the inherent violence of the piece

---todd

I hope you don't hate Plath, because this really reminded me of her, without it being derivative, mind you. She may not be my favorite poet anymore (I was completely obsessed with her that one year I spent in college, though) but like todd said, the violence of the piece, coupled with the fact that you are talking about an infant, generally a "soft" topic, makes for powerful contrast.

I don’t want to waste you, but you’re so tiny,
...................I don’t see you anymore. You’re not
.................................................. ..those pieces…

This bit really broke my heart. Be well, Bay.

Bay, it's been awhile my friend. Haven't kept up as a reader these days but I have to say "You have grown" Though you never did have slight beginnings.

I must agree with Bachelorette. This piece is very Plathian (never did outgrow her, Bachelorette!) with some sting of Sexton. That sexy Confessional writer.

A plethora of intense imagery, you managing to make it all painfully beautiful.

So many lines, exceptional. Can't quote them all so let's settle for a few, especially deserving laudation.

Really, no pun intended but you have some ice pick sharp going on here. Chills, Bay.

Wrestling with the sphere, you have a blade of a smile,
chewing the Venetian glass tree
you thought was your mother.


What a way to describe the power of a laugh, I imagine not necessarily "cheery". This reminds me of ways in which I've described my father's smile.

a world erupts violently when you laugh.

A great juxtaposition.

and saucers of broken ceiling go to sleep on my body.

Bay, you know I'm a hound for imagery. You've never let me down. This piece, the imagery, here, is exquisitely chilling, biting. Laurie