Poetry
When I call my mother on Mothers Day/
I thank her again for making me, and for/
lamb chops, for smocked dresses,
Writing poems on antidepressants/
is hard. You can appreciate the difficulty/
by reading the previous two lines.
This is the house of Anopheles/
in the city of malaria/
that infects 500 million souls a year
You didn’t come to bed until morning/
You opened and closed doors all night/
while I slept in the ambient soot
The old man/
plies his trade, his wages earned: a clean boat./
Is labor prayer?
As I walked to Lake Divine, I remembered I’d forgotten/
To fill my pockets with rocks. I’m the type who forgets
