Mama I’ve been out
shouting with the Spoken Words, raised
my cardboard sign ‘til my throat
bled screws and I coughed
up rust. They were woven
out of black holes they filled
with drinks from the Limericks’
alehouse crooning blues
like upbeat tunes. Mama they’re mockingbirds
with their wings cut off. The Beats
taught me to dance and oh Mama
you shoulda seen me. They call me Butterfly
and Gunfire and the crowd clapped
to my two-step ‘til I tripped
and had to sit. The Moderns
brought their books Mama and read
to me softly like you used to
only words were missing and pages
torn out and I couldn’t quite hear them
over the rocking ragtime rhythms
but they have less paper
cuts and can read in moonlight. I went out
stargazing with the Sonnets, kissed
their champagne stained
faces. I looked deep
into their eyes ‘cause I remember
you said they’re glittering copper
light beams. I still have bruises
where they stared me down Mama. I don’t think
I shoulda looked Mama. Back inside the Epics sang
about all kinds of things you never told me
but I don’t think you knew
and I don’t think you wanna.
They stomped and jousted
on the bartop, chanting Victory Victory
and the wayward church bells
clanging made my head spin and the room smell
like your perfume Mama so I waved down
a taxi, stumbling ‘cause
my feet hurt so bad Mama but now
I’m back Mama. I’m back.
Inklings Literary Magazine 