is trying to happen at the top of its voice
drivers shutting off engines at the bus stop
hanging out their cracked-open doors blue jackets
this woman too old to be my mother or she’s not
too dressed in a felt hat & cashmere or she isn’t
traffic is backing up along the road now
a small then big crowd making itself up around her body
and she is reaching her fingers right down inside herself
to pull it all up for everyone to see
a botched magic trick
flowers stuck inside her throat
there are things like this I’m worried I can’t stop
a static black cab’s engine like a drumroll
absolute sadness I cannot prevent
an enormous wrench and she comes up empty nothing
but her palms are on her knees and she’s slow dry-heaving
this woman does not have my mother’s mouth or she does
all of her pain is trying to happen at the top of its voice
a botched magic trick
meanwhile rabbits growing out the eyes of a child
and the woman holding its hand fistfuls of rabbits
white and black fur bloating in everyone
This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.
