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
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.