Livingston’s Yellow Oxheart

by Linda Wojtowick

 

His mother had wild lion’s hair, ran on stones

with sandal feet. Bones and nails exposed.

Drums rattling like her piano nerves.

God, she was horse. Her films of dancing

bodies against a penny sky. Mirrors gone to stars.

After Haiti the money got thinnest, but her vitamin

shots got thick. Nobody believes me: the artist’s party,

afternoon a steady, lowboiled sun. The windows bent in.

She took the refrigerator up in her tiny arms.

Something in her eyes went fused. By the black

 

mugs once yellow and pink as dreams of northern ladies

and cakes. Later, picking through, I could see that day

her son put her howl away in his spine. He could only get to it

when wrecked, or called by the filthy city

moon.

 


Linda Wojtowick is a Pushcart Prize bridesmaid. She lives in an increasingly more crowded and expensive Portland, Oregon, where she can easily indulge her cinematic obsessions without restraint. Upcoming projects are: rest, and searching for things. Oh, so many things.

 

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