The Amaranthine Poet

Mother is Foam

January 13, 2010 on 2:32 am | In Everything | No Comments

Hovering beneath the frail skin of lupines.
The bubbles from some unknown foam
Misplaced earth or misshaped tongue
Mothers stretch delicately from
Our sides. Drops of dew
Beading on our stems.
Until she evaporates into the sun
But this mother is no dew. No flame of thought
That simmers until we
stop
When rivers are angry. or hurt
They foam.
When peace receives them
They are wet and slick again.
When devils
blind pigs
They foam.
Their mouths and cankered cheeks. White and running.
I’m running. Away from the
Voice of the foam. Crackling and popping
Fizzing and shifting.
Rainbows swirling in each bubbled eye.
This mother has too many eyes
To see
Me. Whom she still grasps
Because Nature is a sadist.
But her eyes gaze within her eyes.
Fails to see the streaks
On my frail skin.
Overtly gleaming under the
Tangerine sun
Red and running.

jenna awaddawa annej