By Ziggy Fumar
Mother was infected last night.
She's barely breathing…her molecules have lost their scent.
But I can see. It's funny. The
lightness of It. The meaning. No more pretending. No more Other. Just me in the
woods. And this plague.
At the bottom of a hill to
climb. Before a gate to enter. In a cave to fantasize. Beside a whore to hold.
And fondle. Outside. In the park. Within the woods. Fine. The air is crisp. Her
molecules lose their taste. Now this.
Foul water. Pestilence. They
took her away, staggering her molecules, deaf and mute. Within a word. Beyond
the course. That war, a famine means nothing…To speak, we must find something
to say…especially when we're speechless…where going home is running away…where
love betrays a specific treason…the wilder we become.
One won't bury whatever one
fails to bring low…Its vapors will rise …polluting nostrils everywhere…